Sand Down the Western Highway

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The words I’ve been reading
Sand I’ve been treading
Pasted on my ankles and hands

And what I talk about
When I talk about now

Your long hair
Tied back in the days I’m gone

I hope the same song
the same lilting chords
Are stuck in your head too

As you watch trams, rain, money
I’m seeing you
and the wide open sea

My favourite backdrop

Martyr

A Church in mourning
looks out over Woolworths.

The homeless man spits
and sits
on golden steps.

He lights up, then splutters.
Plastic bags pole-dance round the steeple,
their sides torn out.

A rotting capsicum,
cereal-box toys
slide down stained glass.

Mother Mary watches.

Yellowed fingers clutch
a nearly empty bottle
Holy Water only $6.99!

A headless Pokémon
falls on his own shaking head.
He looks up

The heavens are thick with fumes
Trees wave elegant arms
It starts to rain.

Jesus takes another swig
legs to one side,
liquid dribbles down his chin.

A Nike-dressed lady with a pram
rolls her eyes,
forced to jog around Him

as He passes out on the ground.