Politics in Wartime

I whistle in rough kin
To a camaraderie of magpies
They return trilled warnings in reply
As if to say you are no one 
That we know, a thief of songs
Pied and clumsy
As any bastard’s fledge
We dispute the global south
With that stalagmite part of speech
You say it depends
On which way you uphold the map
I say words
Are the same in any language
Pulling flames like petals from the edge
One for love, two for hate, and on
Til bare husks are left
Black and hard as any rasp
Cracked, with a little salt
Makes a beggarly repast
You say these things are
Almost the same
I say, halfway home
Smoke coiled between my lips
They are almost different

Between The Known & The Unknown Is The Eye; Photograph As Document, Photograph As Dream

We are all hostages. Start with an image from critic/philosopher John Berger’s 1973 documentary, Ways Of Seeing, which examined the changing construction, consumption and ideologies of art and image. Faceless selves sit behind a suave and sate young man adhered to by two adoring women. This is desire, glamour, prowess. It could be an ad for anything; here it is the power of credit, the pheromone of wealth. It is enticement and also threat. You can be the young man engorged with the latent force of capital, conversely, you could be nameless, faceless, impotent, with no imago at all.

Flip a coin. Here is cult of personality in the fetishised object of desire. The rose and tannin and bergamot, the compelling trace of decay unconsciously activating the basal ganglia. That death stench of ambergris preserved in oils and aromatics. This Is a warning, a threat, an uncompromising invitation. No need to give the year. The design and intent have not changed in a century. Add to it a label; type written on an aged strip of embossed linen paper.

We are captives. This is a ransom note. What it demands is nothing more than complete subservience to the carefully constructed image of the self.

Tear the page. Here is British photographer Richard Avedon’s 1958 portrait of an ageing Gabrielle Chanel. Grown old disgracefully. In that same iconic paint and couture, become a kind of mockery, a clown. The image torn from its prior state of careful cultivation. Become ragged. The locus of sensuality inviting now only that too thick lavender stench. The ambergris rotten. The exposed throat and chin with that wasting and vulnerable aspect of a beached and capsized cetacean. The behemoth picked at by swarming gulls in joysome, childish laughter. One imagines the entire carcass, roped and dragged like Gulliver, craned and submerged, slowly dissolving in the steel vats of some vast industrial process. This is also a ransom note.

Splashed across the grimed walls and monoxide spewing orifices of urban mass transport systems, leaching euphoric aldehydes from glossy magazine pages, are Barbara Kruger’s slogans. The stratagems of advertising are marshalled to a kind of bland political didacticism, posing as art. What is she selling other than the conventions of a mediocre, bourgeois ideology in the grain and bold of disposable newsprint. Tear it up.

In Barbara Graham’s mugshot, we strike almost the same note. But something more. Here is desperation, and fury, and beauty pared back to a few brute strokes. This Is Barbara Kruger’s ransom note, and obscured by that imprisoning montage, torn from some stray poem, a stray, unwieldy, transformative word; This Barbara Graham’s love note. “Good people are always so sure they’re right.”

Now, a word from our author – breaking the fourth wall, let me declare; I am quite old. A recent ophthalmograph revealed that I am short-sighted in one eye, long-sighted in the other. Thus, living in the blur not only goes some way to describing my aesthetic, but also my reality. The middle ground is a haze, up close – personal – expect an unrepentant perspicacity; from a far distance, a heightened perspective. I suspect, in this double vision, a deeper aetiology.

Here we focus on our two disparate, concluding images; This Is Barbara Kruger’s Ransom Note, and In The Dawn I Warn Myself Against The Dangerous Moonlight. The first is, although layered in its didacticism, eminently knowable. We know the exact time, the exact place; the stark inhumane light and subjectifying reality of a police station; the woman’s story – one of brutality given and returned – plain as the bruises on her face.

The other is eminently unknowable; we are told it is dawn, but is it? There is an alien, artificial quality to the sourceless light. The streetscape, silhouetted trees and Victorian water-tower, in sharp relief, could be almost anywhere. Montage, as Druckery says, is either discursive or dialectical; “The dialectical mission is to fuse fragments as concentrated form; the discursive one is to create fissures or interruptions in the established order.” (p.4) Where one unmakes the world, the other remakes it.

A hazy figure, by its garb, out of time, follows, but is divorced from itself. In the doppelgänger, Freud finds the returned imago of the self, once a reassurance of immortality, also “becomes the ghastly harbinger of death” (1919, p.9), evoking a sense of terror, of the uncanny.

The uncanny is evoked when the familiar is returned to us not only in unfamiliar guise, but outside of our ability to easily fit what we see into a sensible and apprehensible way of knowing (1919, p.16).

There is indeed something, uncanny, unknowable, something that unhomes us, that unmakes our understanding, between the burgeoning pre-dawn and the disoriented and disorientating figure. Here we have the familiarity and displacement of the dream. Between these two, the crumpled, ransomed woman, a narrative of hard facts and unrelenting sensation, and the unknowable figure haunted by an ungraspable, ersatz satellite, between the known and the unknown, is the eye, the gaze of the viewer.

After John Berger, we may say in one we have the prurience of the real – she “is not naked as she is. She is naked as the spectator sees her.” (1973, p.50) Defiantly returning our gaze, there is nothing like bruises to reveal her in her nakedness – the nakedness the viewer demands. This is an image that serves. It serves the state, the police, it serves systems of measurement, of commerce, of categorisation, of judgement, of plain, calculating reason. The other does not serve. In a kind of unprivileged object oriented ontology, the tower, bold as Tarot, the satellite, both star and moon and emblem, disrupt readily apprehensible meaning. In stark relief, have their own nature, their own irreducible agency, distinct from but intertwined in the fragility of orbit; it is the human, the anthropocentric, that, although originating both, nevertheless is out of place.

The first image, despite fraught sensation and ineluctable consequence (or indeed, because of them), draws us in to an all too human narrative. The second projects a frozen eternity, as philosopher Graham Harman said, such objects define “unified realities – physical or otherwise – that can not be reduced either downwards to their pieces or upwards to their effects.” (2014)
We, with the figure, are trapped in its dream.

Can we really divorce realities from the systems that have made them – think Frankenstein’s creature escaping into the tabula rasa of the arctic wilderness, where the dreams of objects are haunted by the ephemerality of their human originators – or is this just an anthropomorphised projection, a quirk of the ontologies and systems by which we assume, via a self-satisfied and overweening knowledge, a cold and haughty distance?

In pursuit of the self, unless we adhere to those carefully constructed and continuously blazoned parameters propounded by unconscious ideologues and the images and ideas by which we are all held hostage, there is now only a shifting blur of doubt. There are no good people. We are prisoners. With a fishhook mouth, and impotent hands, crumple this up and pin it to the sky. There is no room left for any other conclusion.

Berger, J (1973) Ways of seeing, BBC and Penguin Books, London

Druckery, T (1994) From Dada to digital; montage in the twentieth century, Aperture, Aperture Foundation, New York, https://archive.aperture.org/article/1994/3/3/from- dada-to-digital

Freud, S (1919) The uncanny, Strachey, A, trans. https://web.mit.edu/allanmc/www/freud1.pdf

Harman, G (2014) Art without relations, ArtReview, https://artreview.com/September-2014-graham- harman-relations/

She Shrugs Cloud Shadow

The tv spills a cold, invasive blue

I have an impression 

Of you walking on my spine

As if I were an arc and cable bridge

And you a monster movie freak

Grown so large and petulant that

None could help but fall

The sea below hard and pliable as new discoloured bruises

Tear it down, you say

Crush them all beneath your unbound feet

As if the stillness

Before and after earthquakes

Were merely punctuation

Wrath is love, you write on the sky

The moon moves farther away each year

I still abide, calling in that silent way

That I have always had

She shrugs

Cloud shadow, listens

I Gave You Tired Flowers (In The Stained Glass Evening)

You have the wary crackle
Of radio in war time
Uncertain of whom listens, and
Whom exactly speaks
In formal pronunciations
Desperate and resigned
As slowly burning ships

What do you recommend
For half-life —neither exactly
Celebration, nor lament
Mostly, perhaps
At resolve’s inordinate delay
A smirk, exasperated
With brown sugar and cinnamon 
Baby’s breath, aspidistra, nectarines
Gone overripe —soft
As waning summer—
For the intoxicating scent
Arranged in a chimera
Of cellophane as nauseating as breaking glass

Well, we all have something to sell
The static hard dismay
Just perhaps not quite
Drunk as wilted flowers
Pretty but
The stain indelible

In The Space Between Your Robot Breaths

Still the day, all lantern faced

my name is carnival

in alien respiration

throat coiled and translucent

my hollow, ringing accordion

machines, and grace

when the heart in moments 

repeats one note

beauty in its revocations

returns and is still

I lost you on the beach at the end of the world

These are private words
It is not for you to know
But me to say
You turned
Under a ragged sun
Only then I remembered 
How the world ends
Not with a whimper
(As Mr Eliot said)
But a shrivelled leaf
Almost an hour gone
The chink of knives on cups
Sour coffee breath
In that aching clarity
Between wakefulness and sleep
I waited while
You went on ahead
I hate it here you said
But we have nowhere left to go
Except this curl of beach
Tonguing the acid sting
Of salt and vinegar on cracked lips
That common benediction 
I will swim 
Til my ear aches
With the conch deep voice
Of your chasing echo
Ribs a heaving predator
Breathing in
A swelling tide
Breathing out
A stitch in time
Just like Jesus had
No more walking
Face a squall
Towards the sunpath, wounding
The shallow sea now gone
Leaving brine and sulphur
Wary, scuttling things
The day again renews
The shape of your shadow thins
Over loose corrugations 
Slips beneath my feet
When I turn head on
To almost forever
In blinding scintillations

A surfeit of nectarines

I have clean earth in my hands

You shake, a sea of trees

Humpty-dumpty falling

I am drunk on nectarines

Face half bellyache green

The obverse

The deep maroon

Of summer’s lost eclipse

Clouds thin as desperation

Where we once bent like ships

Buoyant but

Never quite losing

A carefully layered union 

There is almost nothing

Left up here but sky

And your warm-honeyed faced


Jack-knife crooked

Strung on the limb

Turn aside

Far away

Water breaks, rejoins

Curves like swans, dissolving

The heat is a churl 

The unctuousness

Of sickly pine

Arm in arm we go inside


On the ricochet linoleum 

The Day My Kite Flew High As The World

Caught a blue day
On a sharp paper wing
Thin throat a-howl
Until the looped string
Broke with that strange
Updrawing weight
Of a new jealous wind’s
Stray trumpeting
Gone almost too high
Almost to glass
Almost as thin
As the last shard
In your blue orb’s
Sun struck glance
No longer you
No longer me
No longer see
Gone paper thin
A scrabble of ink
Through translucent skin


Slug trail skies
The day in x-ray hurts
Where I pull
At the blinds
To dismiss the shapes of frowning
Dust spills a mica race
Like promises in the air
Far above
Rorschach arcs
Where jet planes
Have cut between
We drift in parallelograms
But for this too complicated screed
That we laud in hailed contexts
What in more intimate reflections 
We dismiss
A shell of broken porcelain
Once devoid
All meaning becomes
Tenuous as inconstant praise
Your mouth the sun
Behind hard clouds
                                     slowly spoken 
Makes the shape of                             doubt                              
                                     slow forsaken

Goonoo Goonoo Road

chapter one – a serpent in the dust

This is a memory. I may tell you about it as if you were my close and familiar companion, cognisant of all the guilts and rivulets of my inmost thoughts. Forgive me if I berate you, as I berate myself. We are on the shore, the cusp. Take off your shoes, the sand is a hundred million years of piscean regurgitation, but, for that brute alchemy, quite pure; walk with me awhile.

When this town was new, fat off good rivers, wool and wheat, they built a brick factory and made red bricks of the ochre-red clay of the southern fields to build mansions, town halls, courthouses, prisons. Later, when the brick factory was nothing but a redder stain and two crippled towers canted precariously on the horizon, they built less grand buildings, of clapboard and asbestos sheets, grey and pastel blue and pink, fading into the sunset, for we lesser, sunset people, in the lee of the slaughter yards, in the shadow of those chimneys, curtailed by the mazed angularity of new bitumen and concrete culverts.

How they built the towers, the brick factory, of seemingly the same red bricks that it disgorged from beehive kilns, I wondered, but never understood. A monstrous town, under an obdurate sun; it ate earth and people, and vomited out itself.

One of those dust devil days, you know the ones, where they rise spontaneously up out of the brick and scree littered vacant lots, whip grit like sunlight into your mouth and eyes, blinking and sputtering, as quickly gone.

“Hey, look,” I said, to the craning ghost gums, to no one in particular. It was the colour of watered down honey, interleaved with the fading, dismayed black of dawn, scything determinedly in that sideways way along the bright, mercenary vee of the new-cast gutter.

Serpenting along, I thought. As if the road were its mother.

It was a matter of a few lengthened steps to overtake, for my shadow to bestride it. I scrabbled a red plastic lunch box from my side-slung canvas satchel, peeled off the translucent yellow lid. Flung away a gleaming red apple, the lank slather of of a mortadella sandwich, into the slaughterman’s field, a prize for sleek crows or broken horses, and with one sure but careful encirclement of the snake’s nape, scooped it.

“There is no one left in the world,” it said, looking at me in wise chagrin, tongue flickering over river-pebbled lips, peering from below the half closed lid.

“That’s a nonsense,” I replied, bringing the box closer, to better see the needling, night-lit eyes. “I can see traffic, ahead, I can see the shapes of people.”

“Shapes only, you have stepped sideways. Let me go, and step back. It smells like death and mustard in here. Lettuce and mayonnaise. Pah. Let me go. My mother will be mad.”

“You cost me an apple. And a sandwich that my mother made. I am taking you for show and tell. I shone my shoes. Though they hurt. I shone them.”

“Let me go. My mother made the world. I will give you a pepper tree. I will tell the sun my father to calm his fury.”

“Shhhhhh. I don’t like pepper.” I closed the lid, and held the box close to my chest, and late, ran for school, the still low morning sun still blazing across the watery hide of the Goonoo Goonoo road, the cattle trucks gnashing chrome bright masks, I flinging myself sideways from mouth-wide wheels, almost invisible, into the grit and talc of disgorged brick dust that snaked the verge. I thought; as if that hard, fixed river had on each side twinned rivers moving with that slow remora determination.

Where I fled, none saw; the snake in the box striking ineffectually with upraised perfect fangs against the slick, impenetrable surface, at each enfilading scatter of my heart.

“What sort of child are you?” Mrs Smith asked. I could see in the ghost against the distant dun and blue beyond the window glass, tears had turned the dust on my face into a warning. A claw scraped tiger’s mask.

She was the shape of an old and I’ll-manicured rose. Leaves long curled to husks. Obsidian chips for eyes. Her mouth a long healed wound. Gnarled, grained, bereft, for fast fingers, a cat’s knotted whip cords. I heard her thinking, “How does one beat such a child?”

“ Sorry, Miss. Fell over.” Safely at school, amongst the fast eroding bricks, the colour of broken bottles and dried blood, embedded in the alien surface, like hard watchful eyes, glassy, concave inclusions, people, buildings, the town, could, almost, see me again.

“The Vikings used ice for windows,” she was saying, with the stridency of fraught but determined certitude. “There are runic marks on the rocks in Sydney Cove, so it is thought they came here long before Captain Cook.”

“That’s a nonsense, Miss.” it was the favourite thing I had learned in school; that one person’s harboured absolutes were another’s nonsense. That repeating the phrase, so often repeated to me, was a way of cutting through the obstinate veneer. On the desk, the snake in the lunch box said, “Bravissimo.”

“Shhhhh!” I said, putting my hand on the lid, the shadowed Ouroboros shape circling within.

“If you are eating in class, I expect you have enough for everyone.”

“No, Miss.”

“Let’s see what you do have, then.” She came striding forward, like a cavalry charge. Cannonade heels, eyes like Medusa, hair flailing, grabbed the box, held it down against the desk, perhaps, in case it escaped. With that invasive, indrawn vacuum sound, of necessity’s abhorrent breath, tore up the lid.

She yelped. Quite empty. Marks like crimson eyes on the soft fore edge of her wrist.

“You stabbed me with a pencil.” Outrage, incredulous. Her mouth moving with a marionette’s jolting, imprecise stutter.

“I’ll die of lead poisoning!”

“That’s a nonsense, Miss.”

The slap came with that God-like fury. Tears, laughter, silence sting. Suddenly sideways through the world. I closed up the box and ran.

By the ordure grimed trap of the slaughter yard’s mazy railed marshalling corral, my chest caught me up in a demand of roaring. Somewhere I had thrown away my shoes. The road was following me. I could see it in the distance, raising up, writhing. The snake in the box against my chest said, “Time to go home, our mother’s calling.”

“I killed her. Mrs Smith. I can never go home.”

“You didn’t kill her. She has just about as much life as she always had. You stepped sideways, little brother. Think of it as a dance. You cannot unstep. Here, I’m hungry. Give me your wrist.”

It suckled for a while.

After, a sate purchase on its lips, it sidled into the yard’s litter of bones and Paterson’s Curse. An apple core’s mangled hourglass. Against my forehead’s irrationed heat, through dry weeds, a breeze still singing.

Before vanishing in sand and scree, the serpent looked back, over broad imagined shoulders, and whispered – something I did not quite hear – something like a winter wind caught in a chimney’s hollow breast.

I plunged my head into the algal stain of a half-barrel concrete trough, mica flickering on the surface, and underneath, thinking; here is where the condemned drink. Shoulders, collar wet. It was cooling, nevertheless.

Heading home. A moth abroad, confused by my moon brightness, deflected from my chest. Fell with bent wings to rust borne earth. Stunned or dead. Misadventure, I thought; am I then an act of god? The penultimate act.

In the near distance are the hunched shapes of clapboard and asbestos houses. Somewhere beyond, the desperate, leaning shards of red brick.

I think; the world is stretched thin. There are monsters. I am at the precipice. About to fall.

The world here is desperately empty.

chapter 2 – mother

Chapter Two (Mother)

It was almost ten years later I was beaten to death and my body thrown off a cliff into a debris littered gully, to lie in the moonless dark awhile hidden amongst the scree and scrub, the carapaces of decaying cars and the blistered cocoons of mouldering floral-patterned mattresses, before I was dragged back up through glaring streetlights and brutally resurrected. Afterwards, I was neither here nor there, quasi modo for a while. Quite monstrous. Then, emerging from all outward signs of my destruction, nevertheless, a different shape.

How that later blasphemy connects with this, I cannot tell you exactly. Only that it does, in the way wing beats propel the bird, and horses balk at barbed fences, or a storm demands the unravelling of a tethered kite, and sunshine evaporates puddles after, revealing gravel, and broken glass, and in the worn, degraded screed of tyre tracks, unremarked departures.

You doubt. This is not a novel that through glib voicelessness asks you to subsume consciousness, to suspend disbelief. Nor is it a biograph, dressed in sheep’s clothes, inveigling at the door of veracity. Because this child is a cur, not a pig, I have come to blow your house down. Here each moment makes its own demands. Think instead; these are the rifled reflections of my life passing before my inner eye at the moments of my deaths, those moments, that passage, deranged like an overturned display of photographs and tourist postcards, lurid corals now in fragmentary montage with  stark monochrome and melancholic sepia. It is not for you to know which parts of my story are true; that some are, must suffice. As to the rest, if they are embellished, heightened, confabulated, extemporised, recast, concocted, nevertheless; there is a kernel, and here, I give you the bask and threat and spill of the living tree.

It is only from the relative safety of distance that childhood is lustrous, the deep thrall of ruby glass. We see now with envy, forgetting, the same fracture that makes rubies red, makes emeralds green. Which is to simply say; each image has its own truth.

There was a locust on the screen door. That dun bright plague verdure almost hidden against the dulled mesh and curlicues of blighted aluminium silver. I chew the word like an incantation. Like they say on TV. A-loomi-num – a-loo-mini-yum. A spell to ease the hinges, to silence the world. At the creak and shudder, the locust whirrs, nips at my wrist, my fingers curl tighter on the lever, in a blur of lace wings and bent-back, serrated limbs, fled, on the currents of its own precarious hunger.

The house, in vacant summer’s middling morning heat has the heady, intoxicating smell of almost burnt meat and fresh lead paint. It seems quite new, at what I imagine is a secret women’s, hour. Our invasive racket reduced to temple quiet steps. A scent of recently turned earth rising from beneath. Mother is all these things. She is honeysuckle and green, the ozone smell of Fabulon, and the rivery murk of silk-slick polyester. I come, at this hour, a stranger, an alien, an interloper. Smelling of tears and death, and that dusty, serpentine stench. With the bang of the screen behind me, all peace gone.

But – she knows already. She is cradling the phone, chin and shoulder, sotto voce chirping, hands wringing and smoothing a cloth, the red gone to pink, as if she could not help but in turns kill and revive a fear paralysed animal. Involuntarily knuckling for the warning of its heartbeat. The start and scrabble of its flailing claws. A voice echoed louder against pristine walls. Full of the static of hard, accusatory words. Calmed again, with that deflating hiss. Put it to rest.

Mother is brown and creased and bent and patient as a willow. I suppose sometimes I am the bird in her hair, at others the creek in skirl and babble below her feet. Sometimes she lashes, sometimes she scoops me up in tendril branches. Now she is somewhere between a cigarette and a sigh. I am a chore. There is nothing to say. I can only slowly cry. She folds me up like linen. Carefully, with a whetted thumb, smooths and creases the edges. Puts me in the cupboard with the sheets and towels. I imagine a tomb for pharaoh. Forty four thread count, a smell in the semi-dark almost like dried flowers. I will be found with the moths, a desiccated husk, heart still barely thrumming, in a thousand aching years.

The telephone again. The distant, watery voice. “They say he’s killed his teacher. I don’t know. With a pencil or with a snake. I know. I’ve put him in the hall cupboard. Yes. The police are coming.”

Sleep is an anvil, just above my head. You think a cartoon, but this is a serious weight. I will be crushed, my skull caved in, my chest collapsed until I look like the half-constructed Opera House, exhaling like arias the unsung deaths of a thousand cockatoo roadkills.

I imagine the bird, a skeletal machine, pushing itself up, shedding earth and sea, the halo bright feathers underneath, rending trains and ferries in iron talons, toppling buildings with the beat of its wings, a glance of that piercing eye, then gone into the sun. After, by whatever unconscious process the crisis is resolved, I wake again. 

There is something incredibly freeing in the the betrayal by a parent, of their child, to authority, to the state. However unintentional. Regardless of whatever sense of duty, of obligation to the rule of civil society, some bonds must be held inviolate. When they are not, like a kite that has unspooled and escaped, spun through suddenly welt fingers, you are made an orphan, beyond tempor, freed from all but the most tenuous bonds to both.

Mother’s snare drum pacing. The police cars have that sly sound, that Judas hush of a loose piece of rope, the grit of it, not yet done with flailing, an encroaching sea over the corrugations of a too resilient sand, the drag and drown of it. The screech of doors with that half-full barrel sound of small animals drowning. I unbury myself, push the closet doors, peek out the guillotining crack of light, the magnetic catch unclicks. There she is again, only now the size of legend, the bands of liquorice black and acid drop yellow, the polished sandstone grain, softly glowing, coming down the hall with the cool, irrevocable purpose of water.

“Better follow me,” the snake says, passing with the slightest camber to the lionesque weight of her head, an insouciant flick of her tongue, the shape of a lipless smile, passing. I imagine one day she shall show me her fangs, but not today. Today I follow.

Quickly down the honey coloured floorboards. Somehow, in her path, the hard soles of my shoes silent. The bleach and lemon powder scent of the laundry, the serpentine entanglement of green and red tiles, through the oil slick foam on the surface of the overfilling sink, then those garbled, demanding voices, cannonade footsteps, I am jackknifing through the window, hear the oofed cries, the tackle-crash of pursuing men falling on the confined and slippy tiles in the room behind me.

A whir of dragonflies around the moss and fylfot shadows of the drain. Terracotta, cement and pvc. Alien white gravel, in slender spindles, the weeds pushing through. The fresh cut smell of grass, an orchestral crescendo, has an air of torture, an air of hobbled freedom. The universal constant, the throat and monoxide stench of an unseen lawnmower. She is slipping through a V gap in the weathered to silver crenellations of the post and paling fence at the back of the yard, under the lower beam, shrinking as she does.

“Make yourself smaller,” she says. And I do.

Lionel is there. On the other side. A knot of a boy. That cockatoo smile. He has pushed the Victa in a spiral, outward from the central eye of the sea blue and silver above ground pool in the middle of the yard. The pulsing, exhalations it makes. Vinyl and chlorine. 

“Hey,” he says.

She is gone. I see the hint of her down the driveway at the side of his house. Narrow, horizontal, mustard coloured boards. Clinker built, as if a house were sometimes a ship. In familiar conspiracy, I raise a finger to my lips. The last, chugging whirl of the mower blades as Lionel throttles the thing down catches a stray white pebble, flings it with a mosquito whir, with the surgical precision of a snakebite sting it cuts through shirt, to rib, deflects to the suckling pale softness of my inner arm. Blood wells like a paint stroke. 

Lionel raises a cupped hand to his mouth. In the sudden, consuming silence, I again gesture, two fingers to closed lips, and run for the side of the yard, the carport, past the decrepit hulk of Lionel’s father’s station-wagon. We have spent long afternoons in the tobacco ash and oil stink of it driving to invisible places. A glance back and with two gestures he is making the secret signs for “tower – later”.

I nod acknowledgement.

From there the street opens into the tumult no man’s land of partially constructed houses. Trenches and piles of sand and the yellow pine jigsaw of naked framework. Some, skeletal and carcass still. Others with crews clambering over, as if, rather than building, they were ants or carrion birds, stripping away swathes of sky from behemoths to reveal the underlying bone, in a kind of irreversible decay, listening to the gravel shouts and magpie trills of their tinpot radios as they work. The red towers of the brickworks above this jagged horizon in the far distance beyond. Which seemed, in this moment, nursing wounds and strangely free, as good a place as any to disappear.