The Wrong Address index
The Wavering Moon
Burton Street, Sydney 1966
Was there ever a mouse
Leapt over the screaming moon ?
Please give me my pants dear..
Let me go you ovulating milch cow !
Hey Diddle.. hey Diddle,
Are you a man or a mouse ?
She roars again.
The plywood partition
Between our lives buckles like broken knees,
Groggy under the bovine moon
Of Saturday night fever,
And decrepit paint flakes into my instant coffee.
I see him sometimes on the stairs,
Narrow shoulders hunched
Against the pain of the world,
Clothes threadbare, pale unshaven cheeks,
And feel ashamed
Of shaking with silent laughter
For twenty-one is a heartless age;
Yet year by later year
His shadow is at every turning
Like an ancient mariner
From the realm of hidden fears.
Dress our sadsack
With four stars and a baton :
Watch him incinerate a nation
To salve his bedroom wounds;
Give him a pen to embroider and craft
A searing novel of self-justification;
Have the kindness to give a quid
For a bottle of cheap sherry,
Let a bloke sit in the park...
Can someone amongst us be free of scorn and pity ?
They let me breathe the frenetic air,
Serve God, buy icecreams for the editor,
Split copy as a hopeful in waiting.
See life sonny,
So you want to be a journo'?
Massaged with vague smiles:
Have faith in those icecreams.
Nine quid a week on the Daily Mirror
And the big-time's coming kid,
Soon, real soon.
Are you a mouse,
Mickey the ears, Mehitabel shy,
Unmasked to the wavering moon ?
Hey you !
Lick crumbs and scuttle to unwholesome places,
Bed down in scunge, hunt for dank cracks
In old city walls :
Room cheap for sober gent;
You pay your tithe to some faceless predator
From a leafy suburb,
Merry with children singing.
Show you a good time ?
Know my byeways, wend and beckon,
My harlot mistress, Sydney-town,
From bed-down at Cockroach Crack (special mister)
To the Mirror's tumultuous presses.
See our exhibition of faces in the street :
Roll up ! Waxwork ladies, clever gents,
Recognize your dreams of wine and roses.
Was there ever a more timid mouse
Tripped over a fallen moon ?
Hey sexy !
Blink back reflections that whisper,
Glitter in the shop windows
Of army disposal stores up Oxford Street.
Pose in the mind's eye with clever tools,
Bayonets and bush jackets, working girls,
(Get it off honey),
Old aerial cameras, bodies that you covet
For barefoot engineering in the dark.
Flee to morning, haunt clear bright caverns,
The arched iron cathederal of Central Railway Station,
Refuge to pilgrims, sleepless men,
Where homesick Italian migrants crackle and pop
Bizarre electrical non-language from loudspoken turrets
To grandmothers down for a visit,
For here in greeting and farewell
The country shyly meets the city
Over a custard tart and milkshake,
But daylight is an intermission,
Unnatural to creatures of the driven, silver moon.
Got a light mate ?
Coast's clear babe; legs away
In the showroom doorways of dude mile,
Where hard skinny girls,
All lip-stick and mascara eyes,
Tremble, step out
With cruising Johnnies on the lam,
And after the late shift I say g'dday
For she's missing the high rollers
And fears her keeper.. Watch it kid!
Yar, keep yer pants on
And Mickey the ears does too..
A neon night blazes forever, pulsing
Like the promise of Shalom without her veils.
See that swaggering skyline:
Everything for sale and steal the rest
The hustlers wink
As de Lacey quaffs a schooner in one gulp
And slips a bold hand under the barmaid's skirt,
Though she wails Rack off ya creep!
We pity the boobies blowing their dough
For a loveless flash of tits to music ...
Well, who'll swap delusions ?
Your shout Mick of the ears
And pass the sodden ammunition.
It is a mirage though, this Moulon Rouge
If truth dwells where our dreams are.
The screaming moon and Cockroach Crack,
Whores and neon sighs, mere painted scenes
To the real drama of our hearts: Freedom !
(We don't yet ask from what ..)
Freedom is a five shilling paperback world
Of apricot evening light
Beyond old Steppenwolf's secret door;
It is romping with forbidden Lolita
While the the Lady Murasaki shows me all the ways of love.
I am a catcher in the rye ..
For how can life compete with art
When glory is a wheely in an FC Holden
And breathless chivalry comes down to ..
See ya Kath.
© copyright Thorold May 1995 All Rights Reserved
published by The Plain & Fancy Language Company ACN 1116240S Sydney, Australia
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