1. |
This foreign town
16:51
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Well adjusted
A dull blue stackhat
A little boy smothered beneath
Riding shotgun
If an under-over was the weapon
of choice
He had none
Too young to have begun
the callisthenics
of seeing his town
through more than the visor
All the other stackhats
were bright orange
with softer insides
and the kids wore them around
unaware
of how daggy
and shielded
these oversized pills
made us look
The local paedophile
would beep his horn
compulsively
so you never felt singled out
It was just a warning shot
fired into the air
from a gun full of blanks
Under and over, his weapon
of choice
We had none
Too young to have begun
feeling shame
too young to see more than beauty
in the trees
and dead carp
Exploration by bike
A mountain of every hill
Curiosity in every descent
Seated in the back basket case
helmets clapping against
my father
as we bump and grind
Peddled by big adult legs
Driven by the wiser minds
Stackhats and stability
No plans to escape
Under and over
Our skinny arms bared
No weapons carried
No defences up
Still,
Too young
and happy
The perfect age
and stage
for this town
Pre teen preen
He wanted a new semen delivery method
Because his penis was warm where it was
and their cold stares weren't making it any harder
The frigid air coming off the water
The squeal of the starting whistle
The movement of able bodied bodies
While he shrunk down inside
his town
She stood by the pool
exposed and uncool
The kids spit in each others mouths now
She stood in her undies
in lieu of a bathing suit
and wondered who'd choose her to go down,
town
He approached and stood behind her
Sensing some form, of companion
Her hair as messy as he liked
She slumped, impossible to stay upright
when cornered
She expected a push, a nudge or a shove
But he just stood there, behind her
as if in line
to be the one on show
in this town
Pious to a fault
Culturally squeaking,
from the left flank
he called out in a whisper
'Kick it to me, kick it to me'
Sans the big banner
without the car toots
of appreciation
he quietly suggested
in the meekest of manner
'Kick it to me, kick it to me'
No exclamation marks
apparent
to all to see
From the sidelines
the boy viewed as a speck
In the club rooms
viewed as an adult
He never wanted the ball
'Kick it away, from me'
A huge religious procession
waving flags and dirty boots
storming a muddy beachhead
cutting off the ovals boundary
A rider, a writer
caught up in the Sunday church
of local fervour
white line fever
'Kick it into me, kick it into me'
The ball sailing over his head
The missed goal from 10 in front
Deliberate accidents
Tryna get pulled from the front pews
'Kick it away from me, kick it'
Kick it anywhere but here
I'm not the mark
you're looking for
Only on field
of dreams
he makes little
concessions to their faith
Only on field
for his fathers heart
Filling a little pocket
in the forward line
trying his best to commit
a dirty offence
Get dragged again to the bench
'Kick it, this borish ritual, kick it'
A wrinkled teen
Fists balled into hammers
Put to work
On the anvil
Fists, metallic that glint
Fists curled like a sickle
Put to work
In a field
Cause spot fires with their flint
Toes grubby,
Thong torn adrift, the button released
The one side flapping
Toes put to work
To carry you home
On sticky tar roads
In this town
Reach down with those firey fists
Touch those dirty toes
Take a deep breath and establish
a routine, daily, that works in unison
Maybe,
swing them gayly
with a steady gait
till you reach the gate
Leading
from this town
Ageing, gratefully
A broad uncoiled
snake skin
Boiled in the light of days
past
Present it to the new apprentice
and show him how the scales settle
Under its tissue
paper
like
veneer
You'd never guess the excitement
at the natural wonder
As there is none
so little, around us
You'd never notice him remove
his hoodie and flex
to catch your eye
Skin glistening
to welcome a new season
Escape plan
Tomorrow,
when the call began
A soft spoken voice
A mixture of channels
garbled together
A mother, a teacher, a fox
They said,
Trust in your plan
Plan your escape
But the static was heavy
Hard to tell what I made
Out
So made up
a concrete message
Finger dragged across
the wet cement
Jade loves Chris
Chris loves solitude
The town doesn't know
Who you are
or if
you leave
Today or
Tomorrow
Separation anxiety
The drain of the dirty dish
Waiting, sounds off
Hear them unmoved in the sink
You left in the left in the left in the
I hate you for leaving
them there
Pitter patter
The sounds that matter at 3am
When the air siren cant raise the alarm
The smallest drop of a book as you flop
off to sleep
has me wide awake
and leaving
you there
The day to come is wet
cold and unwelcoming
But lucidity is the only relief
from tossing and turning pages
of the book left unread
on the floor
Where you dream, deeply
of never waiting
or even making
a move to wake
in
this town
First car
Shiny
Sleek
Loud
Fast
All the things
I thought, I wanted
to be
But at least
it'll run hot
burn out
enrage the cops
All the things
I thought of
I came
to be
Sturt Highway
Old men told us
Don't stop for sleeping giants
Busdrivers warned us
If we stopped for gas
they'd peel up off the road
and eat us alive
Old women told us
The North is a dumpster fire
as they stoked the newborn
Alight
Nurses forgave us
for wanting to experience
the blackness of our country
and its yellow bellied
Pride
Supply run
The bottle-o opens before the pharmacy
in my town
The liquor store serves you
before the chemist
in this town
The, the bottle o, the magic
The saving grapes
Open
before the breadbin
in this, this town
The liquor stores overflowing
The saving grace, glowing
The liquor stores overflowing
The saving grace, glowing
But the pharmacy stays closed
and I need a different drug
A drug of promise
delivered without hope
in that, that town
Sodom, en route
The highway out
had roadworks for miles
So slowly, slow we escaped
It felt like a childrens ride
at an amusement
In our amusement
we rattled the door handles
and wondered if
we'd ever get beyond sight of its walls
We slept deeply
Head against the glass
and passed the chemists potion
back and forth
To make escape
into a sport
To make departure into a
fairy tale
Far beyond the boundaries now
A new postcode, a new hat
Signs that were red become green
And we laugh at
every adult who appeared childlike
as we grew out of there
Faster we drove, further we went
with acute senses
it would smell different
New walls
New mountains and falls
The same despair
and hope for
acceptance from
all I hold ungodly
The tiniest of changes
to the most solid of memory
That which remains fluid
like a lie I so well tell
This, that fantasy
The only true recollection
I wish to share
from
my town
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Jacky T Melbourne, Australia
Jacky T is a poet/producer/MC - A country boy at heart, wearing city life like an itchy woollen sweater..
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