three of eight vagabonds do williamstown


walking thru, languorously agitating the construction site, to get to the other side, peeling my hard-boiled egg how many land rovers in the coles carpark imagine their boys’ll turn out like that, like eight young men in europe, edm blaring, these gargoyles in the background glaring, fucken larrikins, and get to worrying? i would not so for safety but for love of beauty, walk down stevedore going home and my little boys are doing the busted rite of passage thing, wearing shit sunglasses in various cities of the continent, doing it like dad did, why not, times change but the glint in a takeaway can they scrunch on the sick little promenade stays the same for longer than you might envision, does it? so they do it for safety, hold the can like, they are big bodies and the beauty of it all is lost on them, i know as i walk past the bristol, the great beauty neglected like a dud fridge they enjoy for the way it hums, whimpers, is old yellow, and then they drop it, i’m dropping eggshells on the floor of the construction site, walking thru eating my hard-boiled egg for those vagabonds


her eyes rest on horizon’s cranes, anciently move shipping containers, revolutionising the ship, job killers how nothing new is beautiful, something a bad documentary might explain like ‘my mother used to use a broom handle when she made the pasta, and that worked just fine’, some bomb forgetting what flowers ‘are’ and maybe that’s for the better, they’re like dinosaurs the cranes, she says, putting them in a song, imagine out there people clambering skill and clipboards or anyway at work while the city’s better dross sleeps, her view from the fresh cut grass in love with a brown rock foreshore, cranes you can love too from close up if you squint, it could just be any other wednesday and it is, but she’s feeling it, the day voluptuous and epic until finally she has to enter a cafe, and the art on the wall’s a fierce attempt at courting those very, in garish colours channelling europe, or maybe john perceval, who painted williamstown in the fifties, channelled by a guy i went to primary school with, also john, whose paintings are really quite shitty and sweet, she rests on sunday sick of everything, while i scratch, hey! good morning church bell! how bossy but love the way the roof beams sit, and after mass, coles mud cake, or how we go to the beach and it stinks, and there are flies everywhere, the view scraggles, her eyes rest on fata morgana, the rest is a mess or music video at best


you call me a vagabond because i go quiet like that, or i run, enjoy the local cuisine a series of breads cornbreads fried batter filled with rice and meat, or big lunch, or art history classes that get one going as in the restaurant tomas and i try discuss the turn to abjection in maybe the seventies in argentina, in chile, city art about bodies and corpses or stinky little drawings that don’t let you in, i look on the mountains, vagabond, get robbed like i’m pari, walk to the mountain top and see the chickens toying then eat chicken soup with corn and various potatoes so great and savoury and this is before i even met you, before i knew the mountains like i later felt i could, as if i could, the mountains like a cradle, who called me flaco then called me vagabond, of course you can’t stay forever, vagabond the way e.g. mountains do something to you in secret and how mentioning that is, or the way sunbathing is like the end of thought, is totally downhill, the way aspirations to be that kind of middle class form a burnt crust on the soul, responsible for so much displeasure, especially when arrived upon, sunbaking the way the farm, the farm, cuckoo, the way none of this is suburbia at all, but absolutely starts there, or contains it by being its opposite, or it’s someone’s suburbia, possibly, a state of mind, or in any case cracks open at the checkout at safeway williamstown, or going online to look at pictures of unknowable plants and animals, and not that i ever did or could vagabond really, but the possibility of that, that in your city i was a rock and roll douchebag, without even the guitar, a soft image of a man who comes and goes, where real men died, drinking orange juice on the way to class, up the mountains, quoting painting’s thinness in the way you move, dressed up honey brown blue grey like the bus