1: The Relief

Next door salted cakes and poisoned wood, traded for seven hours of The Woodsman goods, a small price to pay at an Age like The, newspaper flavour mulched in the bay of Torquay, so we were talking; yeah, we were haughty, the arthouse films were fourteen, each half an hour a thief: time wasters for when the digital arms flicker to the taste of wine tasters, and we play the roles of villain and hero, Nero and His pirates so we can keep the flyest flicks with the nipplest tits to suckle on with eyes as they perform tricks, candy sweeter than the salted cake, too young to be baked, but still tried by the Hague for baking Jewish fat cake, drum skins and fun things, like curly hair, dick noses, mascara and wedding rings absent, the lab spent most of his time on the foot path, the short succulent grass before the draught had a chance to laugh, and the rain clouds were not quite so crass; he’d run and play, small and Fluffy, aptly named for a four and twenty pie filler puppy; still the grass was dirty with plastic and paper, and in between these two distant neighbours, was the oldest of wicket keepers with plastic floors, newly painted walls, and the smell of darkness, hatred and dust: we must make the regular pilgrimage to the gilchurch for rubber and fizz, chocolate biscuits and other kids, nothing other than the most important biz, six points to discuss for the backyard whizz, one world routinely hit; when the syringes were just another hit for kids with bare feet, mostly in New South Wales but the fear spread to the Rich, and in the suburbs the Mondo sticks looked like metal twigs glistening in the autumn leaves and piss, smelling of alcohol but holding the horrors of older kids, smouldering in the hot sun as the drought appeared, rearing its ugly head and feared in Rugby, denim, but that was a few years later, it was yet to come; the metal was infected and jettisoned by dumb, the junkies would come like come, fester and run; play with the bums, and run and run; we’d play hide and seek, and wait once more for the thief: another excursion to where words are learned; black and white or Technicolour illegible, written in faces, nebulas and vestibules; VHS plastic, black smears that were tragic, that we could devour for another seven hours of heaven: flowers, bouquets, bees and celluloid showers; the flickering is written in benevolent power.

2: The Tummy

This verse was recorded with a gun to the stomach, so if the flow don’t fit blame it on birettas and gullets.

3: THE Book

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 Poseur

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 Concrete

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 Sheep

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