Talking Shit About Respect

by George Anderson

In the quiet drone of the morning carriage
an old guy perks up, his voice alarmingly loud,

‘I spent most of yesterday in the garden. It looked like rain
Most of the day so I couldn’t spray the weeds.’

A woman near him, in a thick Cocky accent agrees,
‘Yes, you need to spray at least seven hours before rain.’

In my seat two down from them on the left I cringingly take it in-
my woolen beanie pulled tightly over my eyes as I try to sleep.

The old man’s gnawing voice rebooting every five minutes or so
in response to the woman’s inane refrains.

They talk about pesticides, talkback radio, shopping, the rain.

Later, as I stir and walk by their seat to disembark, I mutter:
‘Do you know what time it is, Sir?’

He glances at me dismissively as if I am a new breed of vermin.

I tell him as I scurry down the stairs, ‘It’s time you stopped
talking so much shit. People have to work, you know.’

The old man is quick & jumps up & follows me
onto the western platform of Sutherland Station.

‘What did you say?’
You heard me. Turn up your volume if you can’t hear.

I bound up the stairs to catch my connecting train and he screams at me,
‘you young pricks have got no respect!, you’ve got no respect! ‘

And as I glance back his train slowly rolls out towards the weeping heart of the city.

On the yellow line, he futilely attempts to wave down the tons of passing steel.

Speaking to Herbie

by George Anderson

winding up the blue metal
road. the chilli bin full as
they dance to techno
pickled feijoas a duet
of whitebait trawler to
the beat of whale island
roast lamb on the spit
his legs like skinned
tamarillos without a skit
a lone star in the sky
dreaming of a poet's
head in his handbag
in the night he wakes
a spasm shakes him
he speaks to herbie
out in the bushes
no longer living the lie.

Vice-Grips at the Maroubra Junction Hotel

by George Anderson

She is 30
mousy pink hair
dancing with a pole
in the Maroubra Junction Hotel
pretending a thick square
support beam is her partner
& she is dancing with it
looking up occasionally
at the faceless slab
of concrete & steel
and smiling,
stomping like a trooper
then twirling
or swinging violently
from side to side.
Not too bad a dancer
But making little sense at the bar
about how she
believes in ‘truth & stamina’
other fragments spilling out, ‘god
is not a machine’, ‘brush your teeth
in a reasonable tree-like manner.’
& later
back dancing with the pole
chatting it up
shaking her hips
shaking her bone-thin limbs
her arms & legs are plastered around it
she is desperately hugging & kissing it
worshiping the hero in her skull.

Brighton Avenue in June

by George Anderson

An odd item in the paper about
the upsurge of Lego animation

suddenly from the street
a spectacular BANG
the wrench of metal on metal
the apartment shaking.

A Falcon has misjudged the bend
smashed thru the neighbour’s brick fence
& is resting partly in his porch
the rear wheels turning slowly.

I reach in & turn off the ignition
the driver’s head is gashed. His
legs are contorted, the grill smoking.
‘Can you get me some water? he asks.

I bang on Eddie’s door.
I yell out, ‘I NEED SOME WATER!
THERE’S BEEN AN ACCIDENT!’

He doesn’t open up. I can see shadows of three
people inside thru the glass panel of the door.
The guy is begging, ‘Can I have some water?’
It is almost a whisper. He is losing consciousness,
lapsing into shock. ‘COME ON EDDIE, OPEN UP!’

More people arrive at the scene. Gawk at the
wreckage. Someone rings the cops. I talk to the guy,
try to keep him awake. I hear a siren in the distance.
The sharp yelp of a dog. The dull drone of vuvuzelas.