Monday, June 11, 2012

Praying for Drought

I hate the fuckin’ rain.
It was rainin’ when we buried Lochy
And it was rainin’ when he died.

When we got the call I went straight down the Bowlo
Had a few and watched the rain drops on the windows
Gettin’ up the guts to race each other down the glass.
Like Lochlan. Only he raced up, not down.
First out the windshield and over the fence.
Then to heaven like an angel or some shit, I s’pose.
Tanya would have said that.

I don’t drink beer now, you see.
I can’t stand the bubbles on the inside of the schooner
Puffin’ up with air and then lettin’ go,
Fallin’ to the top. Like fuckin’ rain drops.

‘I’m a bourbon bloke. Keep it short and dark,’
I told the black-haired sheila at the bar. Ha!

No, rain does the cryin’ for me.
Tanya didn’t need any bloody help.
Everywhere I looked at home, it was fuckin’ raining.
Maybe I reminded her too much of Lochy.
Maybe I was just a prick.

Sometimes two of the bubbles inside a beer
Seem to race each other up the glass
And one will pass the other one.
I wonder if I started now, could I beat Locky to heaven?

We all flew to Sydney once, for the Easter Show.
It was drizzlin’ when we took off.
As the props beat some sense into the air,
The drops on the porthole thingies went sideways,
Clingin’ to the edge of the frame and then disappeared.
As we left the ground, the glass was dry.

Fucked if I know what that story means.
Maybe I need to go into the future faster.
Goin’ back won’t bloody help.

It was hot and dry the day she left me
But it pissed down that night.

They say lickin’ your lips only makes it worse.
Dries ‘em out more.
I reckon that’s true.

1 comment:

  1. Just read the most recent four poems you put up here CJ, during an idle break at work.

    All I can say, before getting back to it, is: very good stuff!