Dewey

The Camellias and Roses along Remedy Street,
are silent welcoming committees for someone else.
Misty rain is a sweet distraction
from all that pierces Mervyn’s soul,
like African Box Thorn through an eyeball.
Since burglars stole the frames from his family photos,
he’s carried his most prized possessions in a back pack.
His Toughbook is a more constant companion
than Booboo the Bear ever was.
He’s prepared to defend it to the death,
with the fusion of Brazillian jujitsu and Muay Thai
he’s been learning since a fellow kindergartner decapitated Booboo.
The advent of online backup hasn’t changed the equation.
Mervyn without a laptop
is as dysfunctional as Mervyn without kidneys.
His anxiety vanishes with the last vestiges of day.
Tiny suns illuminate people peering streetward.
Do any of them realize inviting him inside
would be smarter than drinking molten lead?

Every week,
Mervyn considers visiting the house he grew up in,

to retrieve the telescope and albums
his grandmother mistakenly mailed there.
The new owner threatened to unleash his Pit Bulls,
if Mervyn set foot inside the gate again.
Tenants the size of a Polar Bears,

covered in tattoos of dragon slaying vampires,
threatened to “break his legs with a sledge hammer”,
if he rang the doorbell one more time.”
“I sold your precious telescope.
Those photo albums I found, I burnt them,
whaddya gonna do bout it”
a squatter taunted him,
oblivious to how close he was,
to getting his arm broken.

There’s a strange lady
on the corner of Brumby and Thoroughbred;
her yard is populated with granite freak show legends.
Waxwork likenesses of locals gaze at them in awe.
Mervyn mistakes the sculptor for a statue.
She holds yoga poses for millennia.
Her automatic gates slides open.

“I can’t sketch you from there” she protests.
Mervyn follows her like a lost puppy
and that’s how Victoria depicts him.
She signs, scans and prints the image on to a shirt
before he can sip his way through
a concoction of pineapple, passionfruit and coconut,
with a hint of strawberry and mint.
As Victoria sketches Mervyn nude
he discusses the archaeological significance,
of her pottery collection,
and identifies the chess match
between a television detective and serial killer,
as an imitation of Vladamir Kramnik versus Gary Kasparov.
Before he can finish the story of how Van Gogh lost his ear,
Victoria kneels in front of him
and feeds his towering monument to her lacy cleavage
into her cavernous mouth.

Mervyn enters his mouldy, cockroach infested flat at dawn.
The plumbing is older than Rupert Murdoch.
His carpet is more worn than the turf
of a fifth day test cricket pitch.
Rain pelts the pavement outside.
Mervyn dons his blacked out swimming goggles
and succumbs to exhaustion,
with the sound of Himalayan singing bowls
massaging his ears.

“You’re so far away from me”
Mark Knophler’s classic storytelling voice,
drifts from his clock radio,
waking him in time for his midday shift.
It’s been ten years
since he’s had a lover to travel home to.
The supermarket is Mervyn’s home away from home.
Some can tell you which shelf every item is on.
Mervyn can tell you which products contain palm oil,
from plantations that replaced orangutan habitat
and which companies are guilty of child slavery
and environmental vandalism.
Want to know how may milligrams of Vitamin B12
are in your can of smoked oysters, ask Mervyn.

His Saturday night wander,
is the most spontaneous event in his schedule.
Visiting the sideshow freak sculptor
soon becomes a permanent feature.
He never knocks on her door,
instead he walks around the block
until she spots him.
Tonight, she’s busy synchronized swimming,
in her birdbath, with a masked petite beauty.

It’s been eight years since Mervyn crossed the highway,
to the street where he was born.
On the first day of summer he makes the trek,
in the hope of travelling back to the twentieth century.
He pauses enroute, to watch Quiz Maestro.
“Unbelievable, The Maestro doesn’t know
opals are a hydrated amorphous form of silica”
Mervyn closes the video in disgust.

Dawe Street is unrecognizable.
There’s a massage parlour,
where the corner shop used to be.
Houses have been demolished
to make way for high rise units.
The park has been transformed
into a putt, putt golf course.
The laneway where Mervyn raced his BMX
no longer exists, neither does his fish pond.
His aviary has been replaced with a pool.
A young woman glides along the bottom long enough
for Mervyn to wonder if she has mermaid genes.
As she surfaces, she spots his elongated shadow.

“I, I, I grew up here.
I, I came back to visit my childhood
but I can’t find it.”
Alicia senses Mervyn is as peaceful
as the finches and wrens
flitting from one bush to another.
Tears well in his eyes
as he walks the winding path through the shrubbery
and runs his fingers over the assortment of
Acacias, Hakeas, Bottlebrushes and Indigoferas.
Mervyn removes his shoes and luxuriates in the feeling
of Weeping Meadow Grass beneath his feet.

“Wonderful isn’t it, I’ve kept it weed free.
I moved in the day Donald Trump was assassinated,
by a peace activist without a sense of irony.”
“You moved in on the 4th of July 2019?
Trump was killed at 7:45p.m.
John Smith, a former US Army sniper,
shot him in the eardrum,
through the partially open bullet proof window,
of the armored presidential limousine,
from five hundred and four metres away.
The vehicle was travelling
approximately thirty five kilometres per hour”
“Wow, you’re a history buff and a half”
“At work they call me Dewey,
they say I am a human library”

“Would you like to sit on the veranda with me,
you big strong enyclopaedia?”
Still wearing her fruit salad print bikini,
Alicia perches herself on Mervyn’s lap.

In an effort to ignore the tingling in his plumbing,
Mervyn lists the botanical names of every plant in the garden.
Then he identifies the constellations.
Alicia just grins and listens.
“What do you do for a living” Mervyn asks,
once he’s exhausted the backyards
clusters of conversation starters.
“I’m a burlesque performer.
We’ve met before, in a past life perhaps?”
“No, in aisle four, you wanted to know how reliable,
the sustainable fishing labels are.”

“Come inside, I want to show you something.
Mervyn’s eyes light up
as he sees the loungeroom is empty,
except for a dazzling array of portraits
and a curtained section in the middle.
“How about you work on that library in your noggin,
while I banish the chlorine demon”
Mervyn waits until he can hear
needles of steaming hot water raining down.
“No peeking” Alicia’s disembodied voice warns,
as he creeps towards the curtains.
One of the picture frames contains a surveillance screen.
Apparently Alicia has pressed the wrong button.
After running his eyes over the language defying beauty
from her mischievous gaze
to her painted toenails,
Mervyn returns to the love heart of golden thatch,
between her succulent thighs.

Alicia steers an electric wardrobe into the room.
She’s dressed like a corporate executive.
Miles Davis’ most ethereal masterpiece,
drifts from the speakers.
A marathon strip tease ensues.
Eventually Alicia’s figure hugging pin striped suit,
is as abandoned as a burning building
and her black lace brassiere draped around Mervyn’s neck.
Her matching panties stay on,
as do the tassels concealing her towering nipples.
Mervyn had always been too busy watching documentaries,
and summarizing encyclopedias,
to go to a burlesque club.

After careful deliberation, Mervyn shuns
girly frills, lace and rose embossed satin,
in favor of a wild cat print matching set
and a zebra pattern mini dress.
Alicia dresses more gracefully than any ballet dancer
ever pirouetted across a stage.

The curtained area is large enough to hide,
a love seat and large screen television,
or a queen sized water bed.
Alicia parts the curtains with the tantalizing slowness,
she unbuttoned her business shirt.

Inside is an easel shrouded in black cloth.
A riot of variations,
of Alicia the Burlesque Goddess on canvas,

sweep through Mervyn’s mind like a raging river.
The way she scissors through the shroud
conjures images of her hairdresser shutting up shop,
playfully pinning her to the ground,
sliding her skirt up her silky thighs
and shredding her hosiery
as skillfully as she’d trimmed her cascading golden hair.
The shroud’s tattered remains fall to the floor,
to reveal a portrait of a puppy, wearing an Oxford cap,
posing like Rodin’s thinker.
The inner frame swivels to reveal the wolf version.
“These paintings remind me of you.
I bought them from a strange lady,
who was sculpting conjoined werewolves in her garage.”

Alicia wraps her tiny arms around Mervyn
and kisses him, tamely at first.
His curious hands glide over her.
He circles her breasts,
as though 
touching them would produce an electric shock
powerful enough to launch him through the window.
Her wandering hands embolden him.
“Not like that Dewey, a kiss is a dance,
you’ve gotta listen to the same song to get it right.”
“I can’t hear any music”
“Never mind”
First they do things Mervyn hasn’t done before,
then they do things he hadn’t realized men did with women.
“I didn’t know hominid species do that”
a stunned Mervyn exclaims,
once he’s managed to stop moaning in ecstasy.
The one thing Alicia doesn’t need to teach him is staying power.

In the morning they watch episodes of Quiz Maestro together.
“My daddy is the producer
and he’s always looking for new talent”,
Alicia hints between nibbling on Mervyn’s ear lobe.
“I’ll show you how to dance on water” she insists,
after they share a fruit salad breakfast
in epic kisses.

Ebenezer Scrooge’s First Flight

The airport is slightly more interesting
than a bus terminal.
The zero gradient travellator is fascinating,
if you’re the kind of person
whose eyes are ablaze with excitement
over the latest development in detergent technology.
Gwendolyn, the older lady beside me, is such a person.
The deranged bitch
is acting like a teenager on a roller coaster.
They say the world needs to
halve its population and half it again.
Oh how I’d love to start with Grandma Gwen.
The waiting room is less fun than a medical centre.
At least there, you overhear a few snippets
about the dodgy bowels and brain infections
of peasants soon to rid the earth
of their intolerable presence.

It’s boarding time,
time to say goodbye to the quaint,
ridiculous puppets in this Thunderbirds re-run.
The sweetly smiling twit of a stewardess
expects me to return her good cheer,
how wonderful to see her shrink away
in the face of my evil laughter.
“In business class I’d be as happy
as a pick pocket in a casino” they said.
I’m not sacrificing compound interest for fleeting luxuries.
The plane is taxiing across the tarmac now.
Perhaps this experience will soon be more riveting
than watching thrush grow on the tongue
of a Z grade whoremonger.

The disembodied safety demonstration voice
sounds thrilled at the prospect
of wearing a safety light,
while thrashing around in choppy seas,
and watching the plane begin its journey
to the floor of the Pacific.
I brought my own life jacket,
I’m wearing it now.
I’m contemplating destroying my spare,
in case some urchin gets hold of it.
The poet beside me is raving about
how quickly his gaze extends
from Botany to Bundeena to Wollongong,
in the most dreadful flowery language.

The scowling billionaire beside me
is attempting to frighten me to death
with his glowering demonic eyes.
Infants experiment with sound
as we approach the speed of sound.
From miles high blue sky,
sea and cloud are smoky marble.

Distant land vanishes in grey haze.
The obscuring vapour
is the wintry exhalations of Poseidon,
strolling between Melbourne and Van-Diemens Land,
in Kosciusko humbling gumboots.
King and Flinders Islands are stepping stones
to the God of the ocean’s backyard.
Ocean precipitation was his perspiration.

Descending into Launceston – ocean, beaches,
forests, patchwork of paddocks, pine plantations,
clear felled sample of Armageddon,
open cut mines, urban sprawl, country manor,
vast treeless acreage; descending rapidly,
Launceston grows to Cockington Green proportions.

The Demise of Hilda Johnson

Mangroves shield sandy banks from speedboat wash.
On sunshine kissed ripples
diamonds blink in and out of existence.
Wasps drift on micro swells.
Clouds peek over the tree line
like abominable vapor men.

On the ocean side,
Senator Hilda Banks clicks on the most elegant heels
she’s seen since Imelda Marcos
gave her a guided tour
of her warehouse dwarfing wardrobe.
In the buying frenzy that follows,
she battles grimly
to stay within a monthly limit
that could bring Christmas to a country town
for a generation.

A wren species not spied since federation,
is wounded by a lunging feral cat.
It crash lands on Hilda’s shoulder.
She swats it into the ocean,
like it’s just another blow fly.

A news report, highlighting decades of warming,
captures her attention for the time it takes
the critically endangered bird
to drown in a rock pool.
Ridiculous, useless modern thermometers,
Hilda murmurs as she waddles,
from her mansion scale motor home,
to the lookout
The grandest solar model could have powered
her satellite televisions and arsenal of hair dryers
but Hilda can’t bear to waste good oil and coal.
She’s ordered a truckload of each,
to supply her camping needs.
A traumatized dolphin submerges
after witnessing her masturbating
before a waxwork likeness
of her favourite fossil fuel lobbyist.

Thunder confirms the sky has taken offence.
Clouds erupt.
Beyond the frothy cauldron where the beach was,

monstrous surf is barely distinguishable from bleak skies.
Ephemeral billabongs and rivers merge.
Hilda’s hilltop camp site is a shrinking island.
Cocooned inside her mobile palace
she snorts derisively at an article
on the correlation between climate change
and extreme weather events.
She’s oblivious,
until her monument to the fossil fuel industry
is launched into the Pacific.