Irina Dunn
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Inner City Life Writing Competition
A writing competition for writers of short stories and poetry on the theme of "Inner City Life", organised by the Australian Writers Network, sponsored by Gleebooks and open to anyone from anywhere. Theme The topic is "Inner City Life anywhere anytime", whatever interpretation you give to the phrase. Deadline 5pm Friday 2 November 2012 Entries Short Story (maximum 500 words) and Poetry (maximum 20 lines). You can submit as many entries of poems and short stories as you like. How to enter There is NO ENTRY FORM. On a separate cover sheet, write your name, address, phone number and email address, along with the name of your story or poem. Cover sheet also to specify exact number of words in a story and lines in a poem, excluding the title. Each entry must have its own cover sheet. Word/line limit is STRICT. You will be automatically disqualified if you exceed the word/line limit. Entry sheets must include the title of the entry and the entry itself and nothing else. Entries must NOT have been previously published in print or electonically or won another competition. Entries will NOT be returned. Entry fee $8 per entry. You can submit as many entries as you wish in either or both categories. Payment 1. Send your entries to irinadid@ozemail.com.au and deposit your entry fee into the following account: Australian Writers Network Westpac BSB 032 020 Account 254469 (please make sure you provide your last name when paying.) 2. Send your entries and cheque/money order to:Inner City Life Competition 3. Pay via Paypal with your credit card below.
Closing date Entries + entry fee must be received by 5pm on Friday 2 November 2012. Judges Irina Dunn (Director, Australian Writers Network) Roger Mackell (Owner, Gleebooks) Prizes (in each category) First ($300 cash), Second ($200 cash), Third ($100 cash) Winners will also receive a Gleebooks voucher for the following value: First $150, Second $100, Third $50 Winners and any commended entrants will be invited to read their entries at the Toxteth Hotel, 345 Glebe Point Road, Glebe at 6pm on Friday 30 November 2012. The winning entries in each category will be published in Network News and on the Australian Writers Network website. ______________________________________ Inner City Life 2011 Winners The winners and commended entries of this year’s Inner City Life Competition were announced at the Toxteth Hotel in Glebe, Sydney, on Friday 2 December. Short Story 1st prize “Appily Ever After” by Ken Saunders 2nd prize Emma Ashmere for "The House of Asha" 3rd prize Ingrid Banwell for “On the Verge” Poetry 1st prize Titania Smith for “Postcard from Balmoral” 2nd prize Len Green for “Pit-Stop New York” 3rd prize Asuncion Pritchett for “The Breeding Pair” Commended stories “Park Life” by Jason Gray “Fifteen Minutes” by John Morgan “My Retirement Village” by Wendy Ashton Commended poems “900 days Leningrad 1941-44” by Norm Neill “Street Level” by Jon Carey “Over The Divide With Molly” by George Clarke Comments on the 2011 competition from Irina Dunn This competition, which I initiated in the mid-1990s while I was Director of the NSW Writers’ Centre, became instantly popular with its minimal requirements for a 500-word story and a 20-line poem. It attracted entries not only from around Australia but from many countries abroad. With its focus on inner city life, the competition received entries mostly about inner city Sydney, but also about inner city New York, inner city London, inner city Paris, and even inner city ancient Rome and Pompei, not to mention one set in Neolithic times. The competition provides an insight into the inner city zeitgeist of any particular year, the obsessions, concerns, phobias, and delights of inner city living captured at a particular moment in time. This year, 2011, the suburbs and places covered included Palace Street Petersham, King Street Newtown, Missenden Road Camperdown, Erskineville, Sydney University, Broadway, Circular Quay, Town Hall, Martin Place, Hyde Park, the Opera House, Fort Denison, Victoria Barracks, Stanley Street in Darlinghurst, Kings Cross, Blackwattle Bay, Hunter Street Newcastle, Lygon Street in Carlton and Fitzroy in Melbourne, and further afield, Dina Campana, in Italy I think, as well as Kuala Lumpur and St Petersburg. One of the poems was even entitled “Poem found on Parramatta Road”. And a story from a Balmain resident noted with a degree of self-satisfaction that “If you’re not living in Balmain, you’re camping out”. For some writers, inner city life is a nightmare, for others it is a liberation. There were several nostalgic piece about childhoods or Christmases spent in the inner city, while others presented the inner city as a “Babylon”. The inner city offered an escape from the suburbs, from “All that genteel behind-closed-doors keep-yourself-to-yourself stuff”. This entrant celebrated her departure from the burbs by saying “Gone are the wide, desolate streets of my mundane middle life”, while another entrant noted the “haunted eyes” of inner city shoppers. As usual, there were a number of derelicts, homeless men and others fallen on hard times, such as a lady who lives in the Housing Commission units in Surry Hills whose blond curls are “arranged artfully” on her head, who wears “theatrical make-up”, and may have “trodden the boards”. Others in this group were not so genteel, such as Bill, who is like a dog that pisses everywhere, and says “I don’t cock me leg, but me stink sure keeps the buggers away”. Eric the vagrant lives on the glitziest strip of the Gold Coast, and the Russian homeless man Isak Rabinovitch sleeps on a wooden bench beside the Hyde Park War Memorial. Yet another homeless man, Father Bob, meets Kitty and, as the story goes, “He showed her kindness and she restored his humanity”. Kitty was a cat. And talking about animals, the animal kingdom is represented in the inner city by cats, dogs, pigeons, rainbow lorikeets, magpies and ants, and one entrant even wrote “I would have been happy to have lived as a rat in that bookstore”. Even sharks and whales make an appearance as they decry the pollution of Sydney Harbour. And there’s a first person dog story in which the dog stalks pedestrians looking for a suitable owner. Speaking of books, there were some discussions about famous authors, including George Orwell and John Fowles, but I wonder if RS Salinger is related to JD? There are stories about the appearance of the prophet Daniel on a crowded bus, about a parking Nazi in a hospital carpark, a photo competition for a Puppy Dog-lick photo, a girl who wakes one morning to find she is invisible and takes the opportunity to steal a lot of designer gowns (a wish fulfilment story if ever there was one), the erdhu violin player at Circular Quay, a story about foraging for mulberries in an overgrown lot near a canal, and there are several cafes in which one might see “the odd poet, alone, tuning his inspiration”. There are lots of terrace houses, jacarandas in bloom, and one poem about the now derelict University Motel which reminded me of my own youthful assignations in the lines “This used to be a handy location/for academic assignations”. Two elderly ladies at a Bobby goldsmith function admit proudly to one another: “My niece is a lesbian”, “My grandson is gay”. A few choirs have appeared, reflecting the growing phenomenon of community choral groups. As usual, there are some deaths, but surprisingly, far fewer coffees are drunk than in previous years. Mobiles, ipods, skyping and ATMs have made an appearance for the first time, and one poem exhorts us not to “feel down about being upwardly mobile”. Hearts are broken and new loves are formed and life goes on more or less as usual in these stories and poems from 130 writers around the country. Thanks to Roger Mackell and Gleebooks, the best bookstore in Australia, for supporting this competition. Entries 1st prize story: “Appily Ever After” by Ken Saunders
Only a few years ago, no one was buried at the mall. With their hectic schedules; however, people simply did not have time to journey to distant cemeteries. Broadway Mall was the fIrst to open a cemetery on its premises. By bringing the dead into the mall, paying one's respects to departed family was seamlessly integrated into the shopping experience. Jauntily named "Til You Dropped", the Broadway shop survived by its market cunning. Only part of its revenue came from burial services, catered reception facilities and sarcophagus sales. With regular family visits, there was a lively trade in flowers, candles and, of course, coffee. Its members-only webcam feature allowed customers to check whether other family members were indeed visiting the departed one. The mall owners subsidised the venture, convinced that family vaults in a mall represented the ultimate form of customer loyalty. Who could shop at Market Town when Dad was buried at Broadway? And they were right. Soon malls all over Sydney had, what were called, malloleums. The Singapore-owned "Not Forgotten" introduced a level of inter activity previously unknown to cemeteries (unless you count religion). Partnered with iPhone, it offered "Appily Ever After", an app that let visitors nostalgically listen to old voicemails from the dead. 2GB built a shrine to the late Alan Jones at WestfIeld Penrith. Jones had intended to be buried as a speed bump on the Bourke Street Cycleway. Instead, 2GB kept his phone-in show going. A sophisticated computer algorithm of the show's archive enabled a virtual Jones to denounce policies and politicians long after his death. "This is Alan Jones, coming to you dead from WestfIeld" became the station's catchphrase. During the Dalek flu pandemic of 20 16 (named after its fIrst victim, a diminutive BBC extra found dead on the set), Crazy Eddy's offered the $2-shop mass grave option. With contagion in the air, the epidemic gravely affected the economy. In malloleums, however, sales were up. Getting the dead into your store became a retail priority. David Jones offered its late customers the opportunity to rest forever in their favourite department. Sarcophagi were tastefully incorporated into displays of perfume, outdoor furniture and lingerie. An American bookstore giant arranged its classics section amongst coffIns and antique statues. Here was something the Kindle clearly couldn't do. This resting place was marketed as "Having your loved one spend eternity with the books they always meant to read". Marrickville Metro began to market the other end of the life cycle. Its Kmart, in partnership with Mayne Health., opened a store-based maternity ward, conveniently adjacent to infant attire. With its generous 15%-off lifetime offer to all K-babies, it proved phenomenally popular. "Has the mall replaced the welfare state?" moan the usual detractors on "Late Night Dead". Malls, with their wide range of consumer choice, can indeed meet the needs of the citizenry from womb to tomb. Malloleums, Babymarts and Target Marriages, where guests are encircled by gift registry items for sale, are all here to stay. 2nd prize story: "The House of Asha" by Emma Ashmere
How can I study when Asha, my new housemate, parks her pink finned car outside my window in the sun? Woman is the sum of her actions. Discuss. I stare at my books. What are the ramifications of Jean Paul Sartre 's absence of God? I watch Asha through the louvres as she frowns into the letterbox. Three days in, she goes away. Her furniture sighs and creaks. The spices in her kitchen cupboard fill the house. I lie awake as someone judders something across my window grille. At dawn, the landlord arrives to scrape the guttering. He tells me he's a professor in atomic physics. I try to study as he scrapes. At last, the door of his Mercedes closes on his yacht-tanned legs and he sails away. But his wife returns. Her egg-yolk yellow thighs slide out of the Merc and climb the ladder outside my window. Hello? I'm tussling with Marx about all strugglel being class struggles. Could you hold the ladder while I climb down? I blink at the sun. I'm wearing my cocaine is it t-shirt. Her shorts are the colour of meringue. Rung by deliberate rung, she laughingly descends. Her smile scrambles when she reads my shirt. I'm sweating at the desk. It's my first Saturday night in Asha's house. The western neighbours' garden hose slops across the fence. You never loved me, the woman shouts. The man turns up Leonard Cohen so loud plaster skitters down the walls and the louvres vibrate. Midnight, I hear shuffling on the eastern side. It's only me. I'm locked out, cries a man. So this is the Whitney Houston fan. I help him fall in through his front window. He weeps as he tells me he's come home without his boyfriend. I close my door and wait for I-ee-I-willalways-love-yoo-oo-oo-oo-oo. Two in the morning, I can't sleep. I dare myself to walk three blocks to the fug and slur of a bar in Hindley Street. I come home to find beer bottle shards sparkling across the step. The letterbox has been uprooted. I wait for the wet t-shirt competition people from the corner pub to stagger off, and replant the letterbox, at a lean. Monday, I queue in the bank to pay my rent. People look at my hair. I look at the easycare home loan signs with blonde men and women smiling from their whitecollared lives. What does Kristeva mean when she says it's our choice to worry or to smile when we are assailed by the strange? By the time Asha comes back, the western neighbours have decided to divorce. Whitney is stuck on repeat on the eastern side. And I still haven't finished with my philosophers. We sit outside drinking beer. I could get used to this, I say. Asha reaches out to touch my arm. I smile. I don't worry. Here, in this tiny dark garden, we are no longer strange. Next day, Captain Professor Atomic sets two weeks' notice ticking in the Ietterbox. 3rd prize story: “On the Verge” by Ingrid Banwell Let me offer you some advice, my slim young friend. At the moment, you feel all precious and loved. At the moment, you're attracting the birds. But don't expect all that 'I'm wonderful and indigenous and water wise' business to work for long. The truth is they've forgotten you already.It'll start slowly at first - maybe with a baguette wrapper or a coffee cup or two. Then, before you know it, you'll be buried under piles of real estate brochures, Thai restaurant menus and health club leaflets. You'll· start to loose your youthful good looks. You'll get fat around the middle. Fungus and mildew sneak into your cracks. Pests arrive and burrow. Unwelcome growths sprout in awkward places. Eventually, your limbs twist and you start to loose your grip. Children strip you. Lovers tattoo you. Supermarket trolleys become your regular companions. And finally, the birds leave you for better looking specimens. And then, before you know it, you've been replaced by a younger version of yourself. That's if you're lucky. See that corpse across the street? Used to be a youthful, healthy native, just like you. Some blame the drought. I blame the constant flow of urine from passing drunks and dogs. And that tortured mess down the road? Poisoned. All because of a blocked view. Yep. It's a tough life out here on the verge. But don't gaze in envy at the private residents at number 42. See them draped across the development proposal sign on the gate? See them breaking through the paving stones? They won't last. Not with that attitude. Be~ore long, they'll be replaced by a row of agaves that look as though they're made of plastic. Or a bunch of dense box hedges all overseen by some pretentious, perfectly coifed up-itself ficus. One other thing. As you get on in years, you'll be tempted to reach for the electrical wires. Don't. Once you touch them and feel that intoxicating tingle, you won't be able to stop. They'll suddenly remember you then. They'll arrive with their machines and operate. Those humiliating crown splitting cuts get to all of us eventually. But don't make the mistakes I did. Shed lightly. Don't crack the pavement. Don't dent any cars. And above all, don't let them start a file on you. Yep. I have a file. A fat one. Do you know what it says? 'Little positive contribution to community network. In a state of decline.' (A little bird told me all this- a mynah, by the way). And the word that sealed my fate? 'Litigation.' What can I say? I'm not as subtle as I used to be. I find it hard to contain myself. Bits falloff at my age. I didn't mean to hit the ranger quite so hard the other day., So, my tender little friend, before I get the chop, I want to leave you with some final words of warning. If you mess with the local council, you're dead. 1st prize poetry: “Postcard from Balmoral” by Titania Smith The sun thins, to threads cut From the gold ball rolled now, Snippets on the flat, glass table of water, Where my hands rest and collect bits of light. Cloth cotton of cloud is spread across the sky. It is early afternoon. The sea is silent. Seldom, do I hear the breaths, so lightly Does the sea breathe to rise and fall At the shoreline. I shut my eyes for the dark Room in which you are sitting.
Darling, there are children Who let sand fall through their fingers Like so much time, years To play with and build houses and bake; The pies are cooling in little rows of seven.
I have eaten. I have made notes. I will tell you of the silver gulls that dip And spin, of the vow of silence the sea has taken. And how when looking into water Is to see into a future, clear and bright. 2nd prize poetry: Len Green for “Pit-Stop New York”
You're the pits, vulgar and voracious, You're the pits, outright ostentatious. You're a smash and grab, a taxicab that honks, You're a plane hijack you're a shot of crack bought in the Bronx.
You're the start of the Iraq conflict, Jokes. apart you're a Wall Street constrict. You're a chug-a-Iug or slug of slivovitz, Though I may be at the bottom you're the pits.
You're the pits, better not come closer, The cap fits, you're a Mafioso, You're a Broadway flop, a twisted cop who sucks, You're a combat gun that is not for fun or shooting ducks.
Your sidewalk has become invasive, You're New York, shocking and abrasive. I was mugged just twice and that should suffice, I'm quits. Have a nice day sir (you're welcome), tat for tits. 3rd prize poetry: Asuncion Pritchett for "The Breeding Pair" The spreading ironbark that once held sway in our backyard's gone its furrowed trunk and branches bent with slender leaves that sheltered pairs of rainbow lorikeets have vanished and in their place is silence the red brick wall of the neighbours' block and car park a cracked expanse of concrete a wasteland of plastic rubbish bins and clotheslines that once our ironbark held at bay now encroaching it seemed relentlessly on our space until one morning at breakfast when I saw them on my balcony a flurry of brilliant plumage scarlet breast deep blue head green wings he on top of her moving in the age-old rhythm of mating she beneath him perched on the steel railing I watching exultant cheering knowing nature will always find a way. Commended stories “Park Life “ by Jason Gray Geronimo was born in Antilles, an erudite ant kingdom. Enjoying an idyllic upbringing, Gerry credited his fortune to Queen Paloma’s legendary benevolence. A prodigious student, he questioned the world around him, especially the colony’s location: in the park, near to the inherent dangers of humans, dogs and birds. His mentors couldn’t appease him so he was sent to his school principal. “The park is a harsh mistress,” said Headmaster Howard, “but as her power entices crumb-dropping humans, she is essential to our existence.” Satisfied his superiors always considered the colony’s best interests, Gerry stopped questioning, graduating with Elite Gatherer status, and gained employment scavenging food-scraps. After a decade, Gerry reaped the benefits of persistence: adequate shelter; love with Mauna; and later, three healthy offspring, ordained by Kelvin, Self-Sacrificing Noble-Ant, as “worthy, pertaining to an enduring work ethic, of achieving Nobility.” One Friday, Gerry received a telegram: Geronimo, Congratulations! You have been accepted selected for employment with the Weekend Warriors Crumbing Division. We trust you comprehend the opportunity’s privileges. Hearty salutations, Kelvin Noble-Ant Royal Personal Assistant to Your Queen Paloma. “Finally,” said Gerry, sinking into his dandelion recliner, “recognition!” “Gerry,” said Mauna, “don’t you think you work hard enough without giving up weekends?” “Mauna, this is an opportunity.” “It’s fool’s gold. The park will be infested with humans. And dogs, seagulls, pigeons. It’s suicide.” “We’re getting old. Aren’t you sick of gathering crumbs with nothing to show for it? This could be our only chance to achieve Nobility status.” “We have plenty; we don’t need more. What’s the use of status if you’re dead?” “And the children?” Mauna hesitated. Gerry assumed it was weakness and he had won. “My name isn’t Geronimo for nothing,” he said, crawling away. *** Before first light the following morning, Gerry set out from Antilles into the busy summertime park. Workers transported scraps up into the colony. He scurried to join them. Seagulls stalked the picnic areas, but Gerry avoided them without difficulty. Within an hour, he had scavenged a week’s regular crumbing. “Fool’s gold,” scoffed Gerry. “I’ve struck gold.” Seven hours later, with a month’s work completed, Gerry trudged along with the crowd to the end-of-day meeting. “Warriors!” greeted Kelvin. “Kelvin!” the workers chorused. “Your queen is proud of you!” The Warriors cheered until Kelvin raised his upper limbs for silence. “Comrades, it is time to reveal Our Great Plan. This has been Antilles’ most productive gathering quarter ever. Evidently, it is time for expansion. Tomorrow Warriors will be rehoused into the new premises in the great picnic area. Congratulations! Antilles needed you and you answered her call!” The tension in the ranks was almost tactile. Gerry struggled to breathe. A shiver went down his thorax. “Go. Farewell your loved ones. Good day!” Unmoved, Geronimo watched his colleagues transport the remaining scraps underground, until the shadow of a boy’s foot enveloped Antilles in darkness, squashing it, the crumbs of their labour lapped up by the hungry tongue of a golden retriever. “Fifteen Minutes” by John Morgan Rick Blain sat in the afternoon quiet of the Toxteth. Life was not treating Rick as well as Rick thought life should. With his vig now analogous to a Wall Street bonus and his ex on his ass, Rick needed cash. And he needed it fast. Rick didn’t dick around; he’d rob a bank. You rob a bank and everyone cheers; you’re a national hero. So why not. And he’d do it alone, without some fool, tag-a-long pal. Sidekicks; they lost their cool and popped the guard, the one with the invalid kid sister. He got a piece and a clip from a guy, Eddie Coyle, and practiced in front of a mirror: Are you lookin’ at me? He picked a King Street bank. He was copacetic with Newtown. He’d grown up on its mean streets. Rick knew his way around. He stuck the Glock in the waist of his jeans and put on a leather jacket. He looked in the mirror. He was cool, a badass. Chilli Palmer, eat out your heart! Rick stopped at the Lansdowne for a shot or two. Then it was time to boogie; time to rock ‘n’ roll. The day was his. Damn right! Rick opened the bank’s glass door; a tall blonde slipped through ahead of him. She moved towards the counter, her black leather coat reaching almost to the floor. Before the teller could offer her a smile, the blonde had pulled a piece and stuck the damn thing in his face. The teller stuffed banknotes into the blonde’s bag. Of all the banks, in all of the . . . Pissed, Rick wanted to snarl, “Whoa bitch, this is my gig,” but that was more than a pistol the blonde had; it was a freaking cannon and Rick hadn’t the cojones to just blow her away. The blonde took the bag and came with it slung over her shoulder. Rick stepped in front of her. - Need a hand with that, miss, he said, giving her his studied look; the one mean enough to scare flies off shit. Sweet slobbering Christ! The blonde had a black Zapata moustache and a matching, two-day stubble. Rick caught his breath and the Glock slipped down the leg of his baggy blue jeans. The blonde shot him in the left thigh. Rick screamed. The blonde stepped over him, kept going for the door. Whimpering with fear, Rick felt something hard beneath his right thigh. It was the Glock. He didn’t have time to aim; he just pointed it and squeezed the trigger. In a private room at the RPA, filled with cards and flowers, the young woman at Rick’s bedside said her name was Sam. And he signed the five-figure deal that she offered him. On 2GB, the prize chump wet himself, anointing Our Rick a true-blue, dinky-di Aussie hero. Then two men entered the room. They were from the armed hold-up squad. Could Rick answer a few questions? “My Retirement Village” by Wendy Ashton When the last of my middle-aged children got married and provided me with another grandkid to add to the brood, I retired from work, gleefully sold the old family home in the suburbs and moved in closer to the city. Something I’ve always wanted to do. Suburban living never suited me. I look back and wonder how I lasted there so long. All that genteel, behind-closed-doors, keep-yourself-to-yourself stuff was never for me. Here in my inner city village, we don’t have to be introduced before we swap life stories. I’ve always liked people and am open to a chat. This is the perfect place for my retirement. This morning at seven, I close the front door of my little two-bedroom semi and set out for Nick’s Nook, my local coffee shop. Gone are the wide, desolate streets of my mundane middle-life. Here the energy hits you the minute you step into the narrow winding lanes. Once out the door, my batteries are re-charged. My only problem is to avoid slipping on the beautiful carpet of jacaranda petals which people here allow clutter up the pavements and roads.. Gone are the broom-crazed neat-and-tidies of my former life. Every November morning is a purple celebration. Nick is setting up the tables outside when I arrive. “Morning Annie”. He kisses my cheek. After just short of a year – I arrived at the end of Jacaranda time last year – we are good mates. I know he is gay and hasn’t told his Dad yet, although his mother guessed. His passion is the theatre and I have become involved in running the local theatre with him. My skills at organization make up for my theatrical ignorance, and I am on to our second production and loving it all. When I walk in, Laura is already sipping her coffee. I sit down to hear this morning’s instalment in the saga of her love affair. Two months ago, I appeared for my morning coffee to find Nick with his arm around an inconsolable Laura, almost in tears himself. Today she tells me that Ned, after returning last week begging forgiveness and promising to be faithful forevermore, has left again. It appears that the third point in the triangle has agreed to leave her boyfriend. I comfort my friend, thinking as I do that she is lucky to be able to talk about how she feels with people who care. After my husband of forty years left ten years ago, most of my friends were ‘our friends’ and were as shocked as I was and too threatened by his betrayal to be very helpful. She is not the only person I have listened to and consoled since I moved to my inner city haven. Helping Laura and others in need has helped me come to terms with my own betrayal. I am privileged to be living in the heart of the city in a village community that looks after one another. Commended poems “900 days Leningrad, 1941-44” by Norm Neill Rainbows glint in droplets at the tips of icicles, stubby as babushkas' fingers, above the doorway of a tsarist-era workers' apartment block. Gunfire rattles in the distance and a shell explodes somewhere towards Nevsky Prospekt, far enough away to overlook. A bloated horse stinks half-dismembered in the street, its legs in the air and its shoes missing, presumably stolen, while its butchers shelter from a blast uncomfortably close. Three soldiers huddle by a wall, soaking up the consolation of a watery sun while the ice road on the lake to comrades in the east melts slowly, and a hungry summer lies ahead. An unpainted tank clatters over tram tracks on its way directly from the Kirov factory to the front. A thin-faced girl scrapes Tannenbaum on a violin beside the window of a room with just a wooden chair on which there sits a woman, thumbing through a volume wrapped in brown paper, of the transiently sanctioned selected early poems of Anna Akhmatova. “Street Level” by Jon Carey A pigeon with a goitre pecks at a pastry-flake. Sneakers step on every fifth tile. A plastic bag does tumbles into a culvert. Legs criss-cross, scissoring the foreground into a jigsaw. If he lifts his eyes, he meets other eyes slipping off to their destinations. Half of the passers-by talk at invisible phones or maybe they're outpatients on their way to the clinic. A dog is piddling on his guitar-case. Its owner's arm hangs slack until it's finished. Nothing in his cap except spittle. Nobody knows the way to Amarillo or Phoenix or Kansas or Wheeling, West Virginia. Ants mark time at a bootstamp of dead comrades and dip their antennae. That's their way of caring. “Over The Divide With Molly” by George Clarke Its only a short flight for a curious crow from country’s carrion to the city’s illusion. The stars are hidden, light kills the night. Molly and I come down the mountain to unnatural night noises of drunken omnivores, loud in their ignorance of water, vegetation and blood. In the metallic carbon scented morning the city cafes and bookshops fill with the swelling crowd of Babylon. The hiss of steam, the froth of busy ideas, warmth and noise of shared ambitions. The odd poet, alone, tuning his inspiration. My blue heeler looks for yappers under the café tables, fed on cereal bits as dry as politician’s promises. We pass girls chatting mysteriously about last night’s possible indiscretions. There is poetry in their laughter, for the flowers of ambition can be picked twice. ________________ |
Born and educated in the UK, 
