3: THE Björk

NICKED, NICOTINE STICKS, STICK IN THE GULLY TRAPS, IT’S A DREAM SNAPS; PINCHES FIEND FOR FRESH NAPS BUT FIND SAND, DOGS ON THE BEACH, SAND CLEAN; FROGS ON THE GROUND LEACH, COCONUTS SPEAK IN AFRICAN RHYHTHMS, BRAZILLIAN ANY MAN CAN FEEL THEM, LICK THEM AND TAKE A TRIP, CHOCOLATE FROGS AND LICORICE, BUT WHAT I GOT WAS NOT A LOT; A LITTLE BIT OF BURIAL FISH, SALTY AND BITTER BUT BETTER WITH, AN OASIS BY THE SHALLOW WATER, THE JAPANESE ONASIS OUGHTA BOARD THE COMBI VAN, THEYVE GOT A PLAN: WHITE LINES LEAED THE WAY, MARKS ON THE MAP PLEAD AND PRAY AS THEY SLIP AWAY, A BLIP ON THE RADAR SAYS THAT THEY ARRIVED YESTERDAY, BUT WE NEVER MET THEM, THOUGH WE KNOW THEM WELL, I’M STUCK HERE WITH ****, *****, **** AND THE REAL **** SWIMS, THE JAPANESE CLIMB THE CLIFF; THEY MIGHT SLIP BUT THE STAIRS ARE TOO BIG FOR ME TO CLIMB WITH THEM, MIME ARTISTS MOVE SILENT RHYME ARTISANS, LIP SYNCHING ON STAGE, BUT SINGIN IN THER MINDS IN ANOTHER AGE:
Book a description and turn the page—

4: The Porcupine Concubine

He was so impressed, just because the spine was glued, not stitched in dressed up leather jackets stretched, golden leaves—not autumn—and rhymes lewd—not awful—but that didn’t bother him when it was official, so I ground my teeth and let him laud it; chewing gristle: silent, no audit...

He was costumed up, long hair, one cigarette and stumps stuck between paper as bookmarks, the ink hardly dried on the paper, but already he scored full marks; all he had to do was roll it, rule it and look hard; it was enough to impress, no need for book smarts, but fancy dress was the modus important aspect to his success, the words forged and fourteen woodlands had been felled for this good man; for his dream that we can now see illustrated on screens, perhaps better than just as words visualised mid-dream.

5: The Corner

It was time to leave the, Rod Laver Arena, but I was hungry and the pretzel stands smelt strong over the petrol fumes and whistling fizz of tramline hiss, the compressed breaks sung in time with the car horns; the backfiring exhaust pipes and the early morning drunken walks, resembling stumbling devil forks; at each corner one leg turned left, one turned right, and if anyone was to offer help they’d be in for a fight: the officers yelped, and the Kebab stands were manned by Baghdatis’ number one fans, serving capsicum spray sauce on their doners, and donating red light to the blind, red eyed Zonas; I’ll take some cheese on my pretzel, the dough sweet, but it’s salty food; my ****** can pay, but spare the rude comments; save them for another day, pass the condiments and abolish sugary treats procured from underground swap meats, the thunder clouds stop to street sweep.

Nearby the river creeps along concrete banks; in underground tunnels the loneliest children give thanks for shelter from the honest streets; social workers watch as they break knees; a football game gone wrong if only they’d played free; a real sport like cricket or AFL, watch the bogans bash one another when the wickets’re felled; under a bitter spell, a little hell to be enjoyed so close to the hooligans where litter wells up, slowly floating to the serfice; the crème de la crème of the nervous and worthless.

6: The Sleep

Welcome to the orient, the disoriented rent with paper cheques, metal money pays for petal honey; tuner imports blaze when jackals hurry, the racquet of those with no tax bracket slaps bitumen tax men who come hungry: they leave with a runny nose from asphalt grazes, baking powder, and chowder shared with lily flowers.