Adelaide, South


last night I drove through the waste of piss clouds, turdal pipes, rotten timber piles, spotted crates, wedged-in posts, gloryshining LED screens, cheap dirt vinyls, sullen windows, molten glass, inept unlit light bulbs, red steel frames looming over the empty carpark gravels, then the blue kenworth truck rode alongside our small white suzuki, grinding us spun in our own reflection, oh blasted concrete lumps, dreamy sexless machines, nozzle pumps droopy with fresh bitumen, flood lights roasting the moths, plastic & enamelled bridges spanning over graffitied creekbeds, soporific garden beds, unmade unslept-in empty beds of the barmaids, pole dancers, exotic shakers of tops and bottoms, undone catatonic beer bottles, blue faded lip & nose masks, surgical abandonment in our arms, bruises swelling up the busted veins, wheels rolled to the monologue of swaying gums, yellow & green along rivers, in the middle of a retired caravan park, South Road industrial complexes throwing russet bricks at the spurious drunkards, homeless man slumped over a plastic bag at 5 a.m. looking for a buzz, fields of weeds mingling seeds into the sleepy houses with flat roofs and undelineated eyebrows, vehicles like ours raging in the twenty-five to forty kilometre per hour crawl through unmalleable night works, charming chrysanthemums and roses bump up petrol prices, fake fur beanies, pink glazed donuts, eggless sandwiches, pungent coffee beans, brooding brooding brooding in their nest of cyanides, hotdog juices tomato sauces oozing all over the long legs of pretty-faced blonds, mouth twitching and long wretched earrings aching in the buildings down for rent, agents smile for a while and walk off, call, no one answers but he the black bird, saloons are closing, security looks you up and down, another cigarette for the quarantine hotel staff in full regalia to fight biological hazards, buses wait for passengers, passengers wait for buses, the Aborigines, the blacks the whites the yellow sun, never setting, sitting under the trees on the Terraces, another night where the plovers can’t be heard, the flying fox chased away by antenna searches, salt bush berries gone berserk, hibiscus, bottlebrushes, paperbarks, heat wave of garbage scents consecrated in the breeze, high strung humidity, cool in an untimely way, outlier in statistics cuts across spaces, between earth and stars, all the roads are straight, all the blocks are shapes, angularly cars meet highways, dash to the next street, somewhere at sea, ocean liners leave the shore, sultry nuances drowning under palms and bleed out at midnight from fingertips, another ennui beaten into the roundabouts, another Friday night for the world’s infamous two-dimensional place

ah  our City of Churches

Share This