The Bannister sisters and I were a “wrong angled triangle”.
We changed the definition of an elective
and smirked at the principal’s invective.
Every afternoon our gang absconded
through lorikeet infested shrubbery,
for a feast of lascivious grubbery,
and to photograph the grandest vandalism
ever to grace a storm water drain.
In a psychedelic haze we’d gaze
at each and every foaming curl
painters had chosen to unfurl,
on a hippie ship drifting perilously close
to the waterfall at the edge of the world.
Nearby, hamsters hang glided in hurricanes
and dugong harlots waited
for a tie dye t-shirt wearing Bluebeard
to don his dope goggles.
Spear gun wielding, werewolf transvestites
paddling after yowie Voodoo Lords,
weren’t the strangest of the hordes
gawking from those gallery walls.
The artists sounded crazier than your average
Angel Trumpet munching, LSD lunching,
smoke imbibing, needle punching, Kombi zombies,
yet the latest caption to hold us captive read
“I’ve seen the music and the statues speak to me
with or without your shrooms, D.M.T and L.S.D.
Drug adventures are unattractive,
to Mister Naturally Psychoactive,
said the smoke goblin,
drifting from a rosewood pipe
as stretched as a Limousine.
Spontaneity is God,
was chiseled into the concrete
with surprising precision.
While nerds wondered if their algebra had slipped,
we went to a wake in a walk in crypt.
We didn’t mean to miss the maths test,
a blues guitarist’s tapestry of sound
rooted us to hallowed ground.
We spent the final week of school
in an empty mansion playing pool.
A Rolls Royce idling in the driveway,
prompted our escape from Rose Bay.
Revenge mad suits in swift pursuit
went sprawling over a fig tree root.
Textbooks launched into the harbour,
made room for loot as conspicuous
as bunyips playing frisbee, with a flying saucer,
on the White House lawn.
After we’d indulged in a heavenly blend
of four hands Swedish, Hawaiian and Thai massage,
I had the Bannister sisters mischievous, angelic faces
tattooed on my back by an Archibald Prize winner.
The dregs of our fortune evaporated in Gold Class.
Another Hollywood doomsday soon arrived.
None of the tsunami surfing Leviathans
headed for the Harbor Bridge survived.
The movie was a prophesy for a calamity.
The girls were a writhing mass of limbs
as they landed in the storm water,
their lifeless bodies snagged and snapped on a bridge.
A playful wrestle was twisted into mutual murder.
The papers claimed our polyamorous arrangement
was rocket fuel for enraged jealous derangement,
a ‘wrong angled triangle’ they called us.
I lost count of the cameras I sent cannoning into brick walls
and the drones I slingshotted into the bitumen,
before the story was buried
in the sediment of sport and celebrity gossip.
Untitled by Kedai Lelaki
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