Collingwood

Monday morning fails to rise & shine

small business shopfronts crouch dismally

signs in darkened windows

threaten to remain closed all day

perhaps never to open again

the air reeks of impermanence

while the urban sprawl carries on regardless

in Johnston St Collingwood.



People watching is a parochial pastime

old fat bastards scratch their dicks

dreadlocks spill from crocheted caps

arseholes fall out of raggedy trousers

matrons clutch shopping bags of fresh produce

seedy eyes fall out of heads on street corners

& there isn't a pub open yet

in downtown Collingwood.



Rubbish litters & chokes the gutters

flies through the air at four hundred feet

in a high wind above the city

spills from overstuffed bins

food wrapping & newspapers

torn up bus & gambling tickets

a falafel half-eaten waits for the tram

no one goes hungry today

in good old Collingwood.



Collingwood street names are chosen at random

by hordes of feral birds

who steal scrabble pieces from balconies

in the housing commission towers

& thrive in uncountable numbers

they earn money by recycling syringes

& making questions for

"Who Wanks 2B a Zillionaire?"



There are street fulls of mental pygmies

looting factory outlets for all they're worth

gorging on last season's fashion

like bulimic clotheshorses

running last in the unlosable race of humanity

with disposable incomes or Daddy's credit card

cash registers charge up like accelerators

in Smith St Collingwood.



The echoes of late night street fights

gather & disperse in the light of day

car windows smashed in undiscovered

shopfront vandalism cleanup

the Truth newspaper strewn with naked girls

read by wagging schoolboys & discarded

to the wind page by sordid page

detritus of blood & spew & broken glass

piles up in unnamed Collingwood alleys.



Black eyes of forty thousand housewives

hidden behind makeup & dark sunglasses

scurry down aisles in Safeway

gazes averted from the newspaper headline


MAGPIES LOSE AGAIN


Collingwood has me by the balls

I am Collingwood's worst poet

Collingwood isn't through with me yet

I am Collingwood's prophet of wishful thinking

Collingwood is my mail-order bride

I am Collingwood's gigolo fantasy

Collingwood makes me smile wryly

I am allergic to Collingwood

Collingwood is a free-for-all

I am in Collingwood limbo

Collingwood roads are diverted from Rome

I am going to be a Collingwood bus-driver

Collingwood has thirty-two flavours

& they all taste like roasted magpie!