“C’mon Harry, one last big effort and you’re over the top and we’re both free!” (Oops, wrong side – that’s the bucket of cockle shells destined for dinner. As they say, out of the frying pan and into the… or, why myopic sea snails stalled at evolution’s first step)
She came down to the ocean; she came down to the sea
She came down to the ocean to be with me.
In the cool sea spray
Under the warm, shady tea tree
Salty breeze caressing sand dunes
Strolling the seashore with me.
She came down to the ocean; she came down to the sea
She came down to the ocean to be with me.
Away from the city
The human debris
Hi-rise towers and cold shadows
Nasty drugs, unfair fees.
She came down to the ocean; she came down to the sea
Now smiling and content
Under the Sun, her and me.
(7/10/16)
Some perception-challenging sculptures have adorned St Kilda’s Fitzroy St this past year, thanks to the City of Port Phillip. This artistic arrangement is near the corner of Fitzroy and Grey streets. What shall we call it?
He ambles down Glum St, taking his two little terrier dogs on a typical Saturday morning walk down to the Favourite Cafe-Bar, when he notices a a middle aged woman lying on the footpath just around the corner, with another woman anxiously looking at her, and a shopping trolley loaded with God-knows-what next to them. It’s not an entirely uncommon sight in Fractal City. But he recognises the unconscious woman’s face: she’s not a druggie, is usually cheerful to everyone, and is just another of Fractal’s “special” folk, probably residing at the Heathrow Private Hotel. So he walks over: “Is your friend ok?”
He doesn’t look like one of the Homeless, but he is certainly not “mainstream” as he ambles up the main street of Fractal city, screaming out to anyone unfortunate enough to be present or passing, about how the local government has been criminally destroyed the fragile fabric of Fractal’s society by closing the public toilets. He ambles into the Favorite Bar/Cafe and orders a take-away coffee, all the while continuing his unhingingly loud tirade against the dunny closures. The staff give a concerned frown and nod in agreement, as the barista machine steams and spurts out another superb coffee. “I will have to crap in the park now,” he disturbingly loudly tells Pretty Assistant Manageress. “You will have to put up with all the public coming in to use your toilet now,” he roars at Smiling Irish Assistant Manager. “This is the end for this country,” he bellows to the World as he walks out the door with his takeaway coffee.
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The ageing Vietnamese grandmother ambles along the Fractal foreshore, muttering to herself as she sees yet another huge queue outside yet another Vietnamese restaurant. She thinks it’s ridiculous, how these people are paying $10-plus for a bowl of soup made by an Irish backpacker, when she pays only $4 for authentic pho in the Vietnamese community’s eateries. When she came to this country with her young children, as a refugee, in an old boat that almost sank, she was a welcome asylum seeker fleeing Uncle Ho. My, how times have changed. From Ho to pho … Continue reading
CRACK!
“What was that? Did u hear that,” she asks.
“Yeah,” he replies. “Probably just something going on up Glum St. Expect we’ll hear the ambos soon. Always plenty of bad crack up there, sending them over the edge. Not the good craic that the Irish backpackers like!”
“Harr harr – so corny,” she says. “Speaking of good Irish craic, I saw that Irish Stew is back in town. So the young barmaids will be getting a good serve of Stew again this winter! I can’t understand a word he says – and that’s when he’s not pissed- but he’s a laugh and a half. So, anyway what are u going to do now you’ve quit that shit job.”
Haxtrax 