Little Creatures
For Sean Crystal

i

dollar talk dollar tongues
flat pack bungalow hell
forever the land sale
in head fuck avenue

4x4 roo bar splattered with Ibis
dead dog nailed to roof rack
golf crazed colonists
haunt the ghostie marine development
Welcome To Nowhere
SPEED KILLS

ii

after Gino’s
in jet lag bubble
the wee hours

on the Esplanade balcony
hearing the last of Freo’s drinkers
bird call their way home

a seagull catches full beam
the hotel’s halogen
eagle wide white wings

O ghost bird
Can you smell dust
the night scent of pine?

iii

We leave the high 30c’s
of Summer and Wakiki beach
find shade in the local Tab Bar
a hellish cave of shadow men and ash.
Gloucester Park, Mandurah, Rosehill,
Doomben, Pinjarra, tracks and places
without meaning or memory
for my sick broken brother.
He briefly talks of escape,
a job in the mines some hell hole
up the coast near Broome.
On a drive to Perth
I tell him of a field of hooded horses
Klan horse ready for race riot stampede
or still life art house horses awaiting
gallery installation
and the stare of rich collectors.
He does not smile
lost in a grey place without words
a horse you wouldn’t look at twice
a horse without heart and hope
awaiting the bullet
the final journey to sweet fuck all.

iv

Voicemail light blinks all night
like the light in Freo harbour
my brothers voice trapped on tape
password access denied.

Dream brother in a field of feeding Ibis
dream brother melting the ice sculpture of himself
dream brother inside a blue suitcase making the sound of a river

I shark dream the journey to Rottnest Island
safe inside it’s belly wearing my favourite white linen suit.

v

Her dollar tongue has licked his brain smooth.

vi

at Shoalwater
......blue light fading
the neck dance of a snake cormorant
dream brother
.......writing SOS on hot sand

vii

Eyes like blue ice connect with nothing
his landscape somewhere else
a place of snow and horses.

The Seventh World Congress for people who stutter
welcome reception commences at 7.30pm.

Dream brother flying away in a cloud of parakeets
dream brother fighting a pelican with a plastic sword

viii

Our pints of Swan fizz ice cream heads
heat playing havoc with the pumps again.
Irish Mick drives for Big Jims Quality Meats
he holds up an x-ray of a cancerous lung
cries like a dying swan.

ix

Her dollar tongue curls around his weary soul.

x

Opposite Penguin Island he pulls over
(fresh roadkill picked over by crows)
Dolphins a pair he’s watched for years surface and disappear.
Sometimes he dreams of snow, a walk from The Bridge
on a cold December night, calling back to an owl,
taking a piss in a field of heavy breathing pigs.
He realises his kids have never seen or touched snow
TV snow like TV kisses don’t really count.
He drives to Cape Peron and shouts himself hoarse.
Wind language the wedgetail only understands.

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