The Punch and Judy Show is almost over. Punch has prowled the stage, hitting with a big stick and springing unpleasant surprises. He keeps to monosyllables. Ugly is what the audience expects. Judy carries the baby. The baby has a robust Constitution and a future. Judy keeps to the script. It’s October, and this time Punch has gone too far. He will go before the hearing in November, but will he accept the verdict? Punch says he’ll think about it. He’ll keep everyone in suspense. Suspense was never his forte. The curtain will fall with Judy still holding the baby.
Friday, 21 October 2016
Sunday, 16 October 2016
I saw the best minds of my generation employed with sanity,
well-fed, dragging themselves through grevillea streets
looking for the latest Bob, anti-hipsters turning the
long-playing record connection to the starry dynamo
machinery of their bungalow, who wide-eyed and hi there
sat up soaking in superelectical Blonde on Blonde, who
bared their brains to Bob’s nasal references staggering
drawled out ironies, who stayed up all night October in
submarine light of stale Victoria Bitter and Drum
roll-your-owns, listening to the crack of doom on their
personal hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously
hours and had never even seen the Brooklyn Bridge.
Take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind, on the radio waves of childhood. Go lightly from the ledge, babe. Go lightly on the ground, as friendships stayed or strayed through confusion and glory of youth. Heading out for the East Coast Lord knows I’ve paid some dues gettin’ through. One October meanwhile, deep in adulthood, in another part of town me and a couple of friends are driving around, and no idea what kind of shit is about to go down. Buckets of moonbeams in my hand. You got all the love, honey baby, I can stand.