Black Saturday

Sunday Morning

The smell of burning,

the flicker and scrawl of news.

A smoky stillness…

Sunday Night

The spit and swallow

of nightmares and leaping flames.

Their faces, blackened.

Monday Morning

Their faces, smiling,

as we all wrap arms and laugh,

eyes a hazy red.

Monday Night

Relief is short-lived,

as the death count climbs higher

under the grey shroud.

Now

Two hundred and eight,

Black Saturday, they call it

Branded by firestorm

The Ceremony

The throb of music,

The spirits gather once more

A smoky stillness…

Written after the Black Saturday bushfires under a red, shrivelled sun.

This Isn't a Boarding House

This isn’t a boarding house;

it’s hell with cubicles.

The carpet is vacuumed daily,

for health and hygiene,

but the smell of tedium never fades.

And lights out is always too early.

The air conditioner hums ceaselessly;

the air chilled to a crisp in summer,

and caked dry in winter.

But hell is always clogged

with clothing and chatter and sickle deodorant.

Some of us try to gloss our kennels

with pretty doonas and posters and ribbons.

Succeeding only in painting everything

another shade of bland.

We graffiti, and mark our place:

“Caz luvs Emi ‘02”

The offenders survived Hell,

but will I?

Written by the green glow of an exit light at 12.30pm, after another long night in the boarding house.

Golden Arches

Golden Arches

They’re there, unmistakable.

Between burning tarmac

and burning sky.

The happy-daffodil yellow

seared into our cities.

Don’t worry, children,

You’ll never have to kill

for your next meal;

we already did it for you.

Though the fluorescents burn harshly,

And the meat burns cruelty,

And we burn our dollars,

For a fast feast

of oils and additives

and slaughtered integrity

to fuel our gorged existence.

And nothing asks why

like those golden arches.

Ignorance and insincerity,

Enshrined.

Maccas made me vegetarian.