Beloved Melbourne
you are a shadow of your former self,
scarred and butchered
by fat property developers
licking up all the tasty bits
like so much roast beef and gravy
dripping down their multiple chins,
as they fart and belch
their own selfish prestige.
Jesus, Allah, the great pumpkin,
the grand wizard Wahzoo,
believe in what you like,
if it means something to you.
It seems a no-brainer,
especially if it is affecting nobody but you.
Strap a turkey to your head
if that is what you’ve been fed,
indoctrinated since you were young,
since you begun.
Cut off a leg,
if that is what’s going to get you to heaven,
consciousness, nirvana, or however many virgins?
Wear a kaftan, culottes,
if that’s what you’ve got.
Avert your ideas
to the world of Britney Spears,
it’s as good a result,
as any heavenly cult.
Sandy Robertson,
so many years have passed,
since I used to pull you out of
your Trinity uniform,
almost on a daily basis.
“Meet you after school,” you used to say.
You’d smile, that smile which would make me smile.
You were always keen.
We would just look like two school boy mates,
walking out the gate.
Nobody could see how our hearts beat faster,
how our desires led us,
how we kissed each other,
how we tore each other's pants off.
I can still hear your rapid breathing
in my ear. Up on your tiptoes,
holding on to me with one hand,
while your other hand...
me holding you,
"Ah, AH. AH, AH!"
And then we were done,
the two of us out of breath.
We met up after school finished for that first year,
your place, or mine,
when we had our houses to ourselves.
Then we lost contact.
If the times were different,
you and I could have been
boyfriends for the world to see?
I followed you from the distance
of the Old Trinity Grammarian.
I hoped you were happy,
I hoped we’d see each other again.
Then your heart stopped
playing golf for a heart charity,
of all things.
Your broken heart.
And I held my breath,
as all those memories of you
flooded my head.
