And a friendly reminder, as of April 2017, my first collection – BONE INK – is available for order from Guillotine Press. This is one of the poems that didn’t make it into the collection.
There’s a dragon flying on your arm
The second summer of love was in a ten year tailspin,
we’d wasted years backmasking the Bad Seeds in search of a
decent Springsteen song, the end was nigh,
all we found was Shoegaze and the clicks of Drum
and Bass. There was nothing left to shake from the decade.
We tossed darts through the death throes; endless games
with a dealer, tucked in the pocket of a battle axe
off Jasper Rd. Months spent honing our class A manners,
preparing our banter, lippy precision darts –
501, 501, 501 – while he bagged tabs and doves.
The guy looked like Jeff Duff, shirt open, twitchy
as a whippet. Blabbed lore as he rolled
the barrel of his favourite dart between
rubber-gloved fingers; a squint, feather-spin and
triple twenty. He had a Staffy that could open the fridge
and fetch beers, it’d nuzzle up and you’d have no choice
but to take the spitty tin. Three games or a beer before
we were allowed to escape. Amphetamines and tins of beer
never end well in the suburbs. We pulled up on night to see
cops dragging him through gravel, wrists cuffed,
hands still gloved in latex, dog chewing a silver bullet.
Another oddity from 2015. Still clearing out the strange, old stuff. For all you people not familiar with Sydney slang, silver bullet = a can of Resches.