Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Break that rusty chain

You rattle the chain. You turn the lock. Rust stains your hands as you walk the spot along laneway tiled with grease past smoldering cauldrons that spit and hiss and slip out the front into the street. There looks that measure and find you short line the roadside in jeans and shirts and you sweat. A line that’s seems to get repeated and repeated again through every day now.

The corner flowers rot and fill the air in a drainsides grim wet with greenish hair. A swarming runoff an over worked drain, chicken’s feet, the flies, the meat and basket ware, the calamity of the streets and the traffics blare. Don’t pause or consider hesitation there’s traffic here that entraps anticipation. So move through streets, and jumping sounds and hustling bikes heaving you round with the softest breeze to unfix the air. The sense that order has skipped might be there for a moment. And so the trees, bewildered, stand in somber contemplation of a wandering careless fool in streaming chaos that has the streetlamps devout limbless attention. The wind its got a move going on between the arms and through the fingers shaking the leaves making them limber. A second here a moment there then it leaves, disappears, dieing to renounce the shiftless air, loudly, alone in a bar somewhere.

The school rises from the street like a giant concrete flea. Felled by a stroke of deliberation on the part of an omnipresent politician who has become a city somewhere south of here. Filled with baking forecourt, miniature transportation and over run with children shrieking. Colours and numbers and numbers and colours then around and around a gain. Colours and numbers and numbers and colours and numbers and colours and colours and numbers. Break a moment and hide from hello’s beside the streaked and clipped teenagers in the photo studio.

Make it through the day. The crisp air conditioner the perfect reflection of the wine glass at dinner. You hunt through memories for adjectives. You sort through ends and scraps and second hand deliver something you might once have thought or remembered. Perhaps.

By night the air is the trucks roar. The prostitutes impersonate roadside repairs and you wander home dragging yourself three feet behind. You rattle the gate and throw open the laneway black as a hole in the ground. Walk the bike into the mouth of darkness and close its teeth behind you. Rattle the chain and open the inner gate and the rust is there to stain your hands again. Climb the stairs and flash a green spark from the fans switch. Struggle through mosquito net into coma-less sleep sweating on the sheets.


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