Out on the town

Approximately 100 kms from Melbourne, there lays a deep, dark crevasse that brought this Fox to his knees and nearly swallowed him whole. But the Fox survives… This is my horrific story.

Do not be thrown by it’s beautifully flat landscape, Ballarat sits on one big rock, famous
for bearing gold and bringing in people by the thousands seeking a quick fix to economic
hardship. At a glance one falls prey to the false assumption that all Ballarat’s sights and treasures begin and end at the gold-rush “tourist traps”. Sovereign Hill still maintains a
low standard of pantomimes and “old time” exhibitions; displaying the crème de la crème of starving student performers who will do just about anything for a candy bar.

Since the introduction of the semiinteractive light-pyro show, “Blood on the Southern Cross”, the Hill has managed to drag in surplus busloads of flashing cameras and “oohs and ahhs”.
If you have a spare $50 you can get into the Hill, the Gold Museum, see the light thingy and grab yourself some Brown’s Confectionary boiled lollies. However, to engage in the complete holistic Ballarat experience one must look past the Hill and all its glory to find the proverbial golden nugget that layeth within. One must dig deep under the smiling façade into the dirty “grit under your nails” world which they call le Ballarat, le Essence where instead of bonnets and parasols, we have beanies and pushers. The timeless courtship of a man and a lady brawling and screaming, hear the sound of ripped flannel? Those bystandees pondering the meaning of life out the front of Centerlink shudder not a single eyelid.

Sturt Street is the main drag (pardon the pun) where on weekends it transforms into a
tarmac - the home of the true Ballarat light show. This road bares the brunt of the most obnoxious neon projecting from the bellies of hotted-up Commodores and Bundaberg Rum sticker-laden utility vehicles, reeking of misappropriated testosterone and diesel distillate.
But unlike those at Tullamarine the people of Ballarat never take off, they abide by no directions from a non-existent control tower. Rather, they run like clockwork with the repetition of the mundane activities of idiots accompanied by Jim Beam T-shirts and Nickleback albums.

This is Ballarat.

First published in Rabelais.

Cloud Fodder Part 2

Moth or butterfly
On the wall.

Look backwards.

Move forwards.

Talk sideways.

I’m my way
And you’re that way.

We’re destined

To not mention

The names, the feelings.

Those good old days.

The weather has broken.

Things on the up.

Clouds dissipating.

Stockland

A cowboy hat and a blue heeler-cross.
A pair of boots my wife takes off.
A tray of sheep and a Mac prime mover.
You missed your last meal.
You were dealt a bum deal.
This life seems surreal - end it sooner.

5 o’clock shadow, big broken hands.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.
Muster up the courage to tame this land.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.

A big-wheeled ute and a coax line.
A CB crackle and the smell of pine.
Some dodgy brakes and a worn-out horn.
File into the local pub.
Beer makes the pain go numb.
To go or to come, the feelings torn.

5 o’clock shadow, big broken hands.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.
Turned out, worn down by this land.
You look like the sheriff of Stockland.

You know you’ll be buried in Stockland.

Words of Wisdom

It stays foggy till sundown.
After then, you don’t know
Whether to stop or get started.
Whether to stay or to go.

It stays quiet till sun-up.
After then, things get misty
And clouded, memories shrouded.
You’re grounded, but hide in shadows.

It’s time to step off this train,
To make conversation again.
Stop pulling punches
And start pushing trolleys.
Under the guard of thick secrets
And under eyes that look deeper.

Fraught with shame.
Buy a name, then sell it.
Triple word score.