I’m about to leave my beloved beach and head south to Adelaide and Melbourne for various events, workshops and a festival at Torquay – http://www.torquayfrothandbubbleliteraryfestival.com/whowhenwherew.html
I’m leaving the burn-off season that provides the most spectacular sunsets on the planet. The burn-off infiltrates your wardrobe, your imagination and your poetry, as follows …
how to treat a scorched angel
Smoke veils the midday road.
The air is powdered.
The trees fail
to distinguish themselves.
I’d like to clean my view with a cloth
but that would scratch the burn-off deeper
into my eyes.
Ahead, the road is apocalyptic grey.
We drive towards the unveiling
of a Messiah
who will come downloadable.
This must be the time of falsehood
when Chris Brown sings of Beautiful People
with the innocence of a teen
and his scabbed knuckles.
His shirt smells of scorched angels
and the laundry instructions
don’t give much away.
Then I’m a witness to a fire
that’s taking the night by storm,
that’s storming the stage,
raging to the north,
finding those young enough
not to remember the recent past;
the crack and rush of the grass,
an eager market. It catches on,
and women escaping like me sing along
with beautiful people
and transfigured people.
And Chris Brown lives his life, lives his life
as if what ‘transpired’
was a flick of a cigarette
and not a felony.
high in the trees.
Charcoal blurs Rihanna’s face
and it’s a danceable bass.
The singer fled on foot,
taking the keys to the Lamborghini,
leaving his hammered girl.
Don’t lose your head, lose your head.
Your beauty’s deep inside,
pleading God and plastic surgery
and a failed memory.
These are the things that rage
in the season of fire.
Cracker night is a month away
but I set one alight.
I shut the door on the burnt night
and a chart-busting hit.
I pull back sheets that smell of ash
and the safety of childhood
with someone else making the decisions,
calling for firewood
as the sun weakens its stance
That was a time when divorce was a song
and DV was a spot fire,
And on the bank of a river
was a pot of scalding water,
and somebody else
making the call on life and death,
pinning swollen claws,
boiling them red.