The 7/11 on Hunter St. isn’t far but
the stroll has taken a while.
A beanie covers her blond hair,
fingerless woollen gloves warm her hands
and a 1$ coffee her worries.
She sits on the war memorial and sips
the shimmering sunset
that rocks the window ocean
back and forth.
Skyscrapers grind some money from the clouds.
The bread crumbs are waved by the wind,
like autumn confetti,
till they reach the pavement
She sips again.
A wreath of lilies rests in peace
Memories of war;
indelible photographs of fallen fellows,
of insomnia partners,
muddy and bloody cigarette partners
and a cough.
Ambivalent reminder that stands firm
with its right hand at its temple,
Young men tossed on the board;
old men shaking the dice.
Geopolitical interests and National security;
a tragic encounter of euphemisms.
The shame of war and
what lies behind and
what comes after.
Ambivalent reminder only understood by the guys
who ask themselves the question:
Why did I go there?
Adult kids play soccer.
She joins and laughs.
running after a ball,
that fly in a parabola
from the outside of her foot
to the glass goal of the Fed.
The violent ripple travels through the immense mirror.
A landing spaceship deafens the square
and burps on its ramp
a couple of security guards
who chase the kids shaking their batons,
their hot dog bellies,
Westpac and Fed.
How many yells do they hold during the day?
How many cries?
How many people do they help?
Any copy machine sex?
How much money do they hide?
How much real money?
It’s another dimension
cause up there,
on the bleak plateau of corrupted divinities,
where the faces roam
and the cheeks drip like wax,
the eyes have forgotten their language
and the hearts have shrivelled
like yesterday’s newspaper,
It’s 8 o’clock on the GPO clock tower
and the no-man’s land men start to gather.
They come out of their concrete warrens
Two men sit on blue milk crates,
bent towards each other,
hiding their next move behind tanned expressions
and grey beards
that water-fall on the chess board.
St Vincent de Paul night patrol arrives,
ladies and gentlemen set up a line,
right foot/left foot,
one after another.
Paternal angels give kindness and soup,
scarves and blankets,
give away 50’s movie-star smiles and
how are yous and good on yas and
religious devotion and
Best smiles ever.
The players don’t seem to notice.
Don’t seem to care
about their broken nails.
Bishop to F5
Pawn to E4
The news ticker on Channel 7 spins,
fuelled by the World,
projecting red beams
Acronyms and headlines,
Digital tempus fugit
takes just a fart to disappear.
Men on the queue chat about the footy,
chat about the weather.
The forecast on the ticker predicts sporadic showers
Tower to H6
Pawn to D3
What didn’t happen?
underneath megalodon monuments
to Sydney’s financial splendour.
The Lucky Country,
where some live in leisure bubbles
while others carry heavy backpacks
of strong emotions,
never leaving behind the past.
The pavement has been chalked with pastel colours
The messages read:
We are the voice of the voiceless
Human need not corporate greed
We are not leaving
If you don’t let us dream, we won’t let you sleep
Adult kids sit around the fire
and prepare their beds,
−they come closer,
shy at first−
set up the cardboards and stare
at the shamanic dances of the flames.
Dream catchers revolve around their strings:
red like the soil,
yellow like the sun
and black like the skin.
No ceiling above their heads,
except for a pierced blanket
that hangs from the perennial trees.
A dome of millions of leaves;
each of them with their own dew
The Macquarie St. traffic lights
beep every five minutes.
Distant howls and hyena guffaws.
The wind caresses her skin,
She can’t remember the stars,
other than in a kid’s crayon drawing,
cause a dull purple halo covers the night
like the smoke of a burning aurora.
of the first week
come back to life.
Hundreds of spirits on the Square
−the stairs are packed−
share food and listen
the whisper of the land.
The dwellers look surprised:
some trespass the invisible fence,
approach and ask;
others just smile.
The cops set a perimeter
of tense steps.
They have orders to contain
the epidemic spread.
But the adult kids are strong
when their hugs meet with their souls.
A chorus of open chests follows:
What does it spell!?