Generation (December)

Early December, weather sites generate anxiety. Shut work early afternoon for a No. 96. ‘Stop Closed’ generates fury. Catch a 12. Birds above Albert Park, surrounded by storms, seem not to know which way to fly. Tram window leaks rainwater on my sleeve. Weather site: “a once-in-a-generation event.” oBikes abandoned. Southbank deserted. No craft on the river. Umbrellas everywhere up Collins Street. “Half of Melbourne will never have seen anything like this.” How come half? Who generates these statistics? El Niño and his crazy sister La Niña, those misunderstood members of the younger generation. Proud towers vanish into rain mists.

Generation (October)

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.