Beautiful things don’t happen here, 

ugly things happen

dirty, deranged, depressing things

sprouting-from-the-bottom-of-red-basin things happen here

Around the next corner is the new opportunity to face old disappointments.

kookaburras in the cathedral of trees

hymns of cicadas

Bushfires that tear through the underbrush, crack open seeds -

rehashing, repeating 

no revolutions here. no bells

You European. You France. You Steeple. You Romance.

your culture will be consumed by space and heat in two generations

withered by the morose glare of no worries

by the never-ending stretch of not minding 

of sails limp in dead wind

Us laidback. Us larrikin. Us unfathoming laconic

we will be forever awkward opening that door for you 

of three pecks on the cheek for greeting

of speaking the language of nuance

and then meeting

your moon eyes

with the fullness of our own

And we met in the melting pot between us

the centre of Sydney

where colony fights continence over a bridge

And on our date I am wanting to pull back

the seaweed hair from each of your ears

and whisper quietly,

one time alone in each 

how I think you are 

cool, 

intelligent

and beautiful

but when my elbow is caught by the waiter 

passing with your plate of steamed Thai

I am wanting only to say

how we are ugly

and that I never should have tried.

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Hi Timothy, the poem definitely started off strong with good rhythm, but I felt it then turned into a short story.  Indeed, it was like reading a page in a non fiction book.  When writing free verse (which I don't do.....or maybe can't do), it's critical that the poem maintains good rhythm, otherwise it may start to read like a non fiction novel.

I loved this stanza:

"Bushfires that tear through the underbrush, crack open seeds -

rehashing, repeating 

no revolutions here. no bells"

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