A social site for poets in Sydney.
Not disappearing in a hurry
(for Mark and Linda, P76 ‘missing issue’ launch)
The artists used to live there
in the mansion were the fun had disappeared
Though last I checked small shoots
had sprouted in the mud.
Lantana never seems to die.
Robert, his teeth went first
but his poems were superb.
Then he did too, go, though Hillsong
got him combing his hair
for the escalator going up.
Ken went west to Adelaide
Anna went to Queen Street and there was Greece.
There was her whose name I can’t remember
whose lover died in Chile, or Peru.
Her grief had cut her off
to solitude in a walk-up
above a sushi bar that still enjoys
a loyal clientele.
There were docks and containers.
There was club-foot Johnnie nursing a middie
at the Ancient Briton.
There was a one legged drunk
no-one one liked
who’d rest his stump on the bus-stop bench.
There was a pub the writers loved,
there were writers no-one knew.
I remember X, that odd last time
when he was almost beautiful.
There was a hoarded P76 in someone’s garage.
There were the trots and subsidised prawns
and a club for signing into.
A dark arena ringed in bluish neon
young folk reading magazines.
There were kids on anti-histamines and speed
turning a small noisy machine
with a funny German name.
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