The Last Marino

Green grass carpet,
Brown dirt floor.
Sold the last Marino,
Inflated, but impotent.
Like the toothless grin from a whore.

A home out on the range.
A home away from home.
Amid the dry, dust-bowl Spinifex
That floats and sticks to succulents.

Know this: it’s broke
And it’s never getting fixed.
It looks strange on the surface,
But even stranger on the inside.

Red knuckles, swollen
Bone inside stretched canvas.
Buried my last Marino,
Because the casinos have my lady
Poking and prodding
For a future foreboding.

It’s eroding to the core
And leaves you with nothing.

Well less than nothing.

Down by the shops

the smell of rain is coming
past this strip of shops
everyone is running
from something they can’t stop
old man by the tavern
mouth open like a cavern
looking so disparaged
coz he’s 5c short on pop
baby girl is tugging on her
mother’s breast
whilst she’s switching over price tags
on her next new sunday dress
from a desperate struggle
kids, a job to juggle
catching stars in a jar
wish for the best
holding onto a bag-full
play it cool whilst waiting for tea
teenager confused
i’m bemused
by what i can see
red bandana on his head
blue on his wrist
he runs the risk of ‘crib’ or ‘blood’
who is he trying to be?
the smell of rain has left
past this strip of shops
left sitting here bereft
entwined in real soap-ops
old man, woman, child & the disillusioned boy
reluctant for it to stop

First published in Rabelais.