With or without him thrive the false
saints & miracles in these remote regions,
pure homage to superstition.
O comfort of Poverty! O lie of Pleasure!
You recalled the hot seaport,
your departure planned on the Ruiz Cano
that dangerous barge which took you
out over the Gulf of Mexico
away from the anger hidden in laughter,
from the pistilleros lounging by
the Presidencia.
You the too curious
gringo left behind you the coasting steamers
& pink squared plazas to forget the
taste of warm beer in dreary cantinas.
You headed for the high ground
of Tabasco & the country of ruined churches.
Back at the beginning
of those lawless
roads lie the dingy houses smearing out onto
silver sandhills.
Wardrobe Drinkers
is what they are in Austinmer.
Yuppies from the North Shore, $300,000
homes on the beach front, sending
the RSL broke & the greenies
blocking development for a few birds
up an estuary. Could be worse,
given the Japs on the Gold Coast
going off like mobile phones.
The miners & cottages are long gone &
so is full employment. In 1941
as a telegraph delivery boy I made
13 shillings 10 a week. Across
the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore
on a regulation red bike. Sunday
was the day for casualty messages,
the dead & wounded delivered
all over Sydney except Vine street,
Darlington, where Darcy the Crim lived
& the most dangerous place in town.
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