Wednesday, August 17, 2005

In the Places Where We Stood

In the places where we stood,

buildings fell down and grew again.

Cars collided and buses were occasionally late.

Flowers stood up to say something, some changed their minds and became trees instead.

In the places where we stood intersections intersected with organized religion.

Nuns peppered the pedestarian crossings like devout ducklings.

Traffic lights stood quietly, and witnessed our failings on a daily basis, turning red with shame only occasionally.

How could I not notice you that day? Wearing your choose death t-shirt and glitter purple nail polish, fingers and toes.

The beach emptied its thoughts upon us because the ocean was seeing a counsellor.

Afterwards I combed the neuroses out of your hair, while you licked the salt of my shoulder.

We didn’t know what shape we were, when all our boundaries left.

So we filled our pockets with sitcoms until even the lint had to laugh.

In the gully between the back fence and the football oval, you showed me your Alan Alda and funny grew a thick skin of sarcasm.

Your parents chose beta, mine chose VHS. Clearly fate was against us from the start.

The potential for true love lay at the bottom of every empty Cinzano Bottle.

Oh my sweet jitterbug, this was not what George Michael had in mind.

Our heroes never made sense together.

The Human League vs the Victorian Football League.

Boy George vs Bernie Quinlan.

When Martin Scorsese directed a Michael Jackson video you proclaimed cinema is dead.

A relationship seemed impossible but so did Steve Guttenberg being famous.

One kiss under Echo & the Bunnymen’s killing moon and pop music became prophecy.

Your eyes were as blue as the smurfs we stole from BP petrol stations.

We caught trains to city nightclubs, I pretended to fall asleep on your shoulder on the long rides home.

I love you was whispered only once, under the cover of dry ice, eyeliner and a dodgy Dire Straits DJ . We pretended it never happened.

In the places where we once stood are velvet ropes now.

Our DNA is a tourist attraction.

Archeologists want to date us.

Scientists want to take us out for dinner.

Anthropologists pose as pizza delivery drivers, just to get a quick glimpse through the door.

In a luck filled future, loss is highly collectible and a valuable jewel in any trophy cabinet.

And in the places where once we stood,

nobody knew how to lose,

like we did.

5 comments:

Monkey Girl said...

Nice one Cracker. Loved it.
***** 5 stars.
[& how the hell are you?]

Dan said...

AH. I enjoy it when you post more frequently Whelan.

Anyway I just got news that Adam and Anna are moving up my way. What is going on? The whole Melbourne poetry scene going to move to Central Victoria.

I want a poem about that.

Trust you are keeping the words company.

dweller said...

ahhh,
nostalgia aint what it used to be :)

no seriously, I don't know what it is about those duckling nuns I like but
hell they all seem a bit naughty crossing the road there in that haphazard way.

Anonymous said...

ah the irony!
that a poet so funny
so eaisly - fills me
with joy so
bitter sweet
all I can do is
laugh & weep
simultaneously

Penny said...

I swear you've sat next to me so many times, narrating my moments, whispering thoughts just like these into my head.