Homework 14/10 - A Space in Time (language warning)
Posted: Sun Oct 06, 2013 3:31 pm
Probably doesn’t need the harsh wording . . . but I reckon it gives it the required kick.
A Space in Time
© M. Pattie 2013
The space was cold but comforting, like hometown morning frost,
but time and space could not replace the ledger that was lost.
The early morning walkers gave their cursory attention;
the drunken sleeping black man keep on plastering his pension.
His face is etched and busted; a living artefact
of brandy slurs and racial blurs, and women that he wacked.
His message stick: an open, warm and untouched can of beer,
his addled mind, fucked-up and blindly flailing out in fear.
His outburst echoes wildly underneath the Raglan Bridge
and swirls up through the trees into the streets of Skipton Ridge.
An epileptic monologue delivered full of pain;
he sits up blinks and spins and thinks, then lays down still again.
He lays so still and sacrosanct, while salty saurians stir,
their footprints weaved where once conceived a tribe of men who were
the River’s long custodians, who fought and hunted here,
and now the Dreaming turns to screaming dreams that disappear.
His calloused, lived-in features, and his swollen sallow eyes,
they bleakly hide the thoughts inside of bones to fossilise.
His recall such a tunnel back from when he was a lad;
his haircuts come from his dear Mum, and uppercuts from Dad.
But poisoned by his mother well before his lungs drew breath
in foetal bars; a million stars could all predict his death.
And as the western monsoon storms drop in like long-lost friends,
The ancient river won’t deliver totems of amends.
A Space in Time
© M. Pattie 2013
The space was cold but comforting, like hometown morning frost,
but time and space could not replace the ledger that was lost.
The early morning walkers gave their cursory attention;
the drunken sleeping black man keep on plastering his pension.
His face is etched and busted; a living artefact
of brandy slurs and racial blurs, and women that he wacked.
His message stick: an open, warm and untouched can of beer,
his addled mind, fucked-up and blindly flailing out in fear.
His outburst echoes wildly underneath the Raglan Bridge
and swirls up through the trees into the streets of Skipton Ridge.
An epileptic monologue delivered full of pain;
he sits up blinks and spins and thinks, then lays down still again.
He lays so still and sacrosanct, while salty saurians stir,
their footprints weaved where once conceived a tribe of men who were
the River’s long custodians, who fought and hunted here,
and now the Dreaming turns to screaming dreams that disappear.
His calloused, lived-in features, and his swollen sallow eyes,
they bleakly hide the thoughts inside of bones to fossilise.
His recall such a tunnel back from when he was a lad;
his haircuts come from his dear Mum, and uppercuts from Dad.
But poisoned by his mother well before his lungs drew breath
in foetal bars; a million stars could all predict his death.
And as the western monsoon storms drop in like long-lost friends,
The ancient river won’t deliver totems of amends.
