Lines

Dusk, orange, red,

sky blue turning into

navy blue and grey.

 

The sound of silent crowd fast forward faceless

man on the phone, girls in the front seat,

old woman, and a guy my age showing his Tafe ID card to the bus driver.

 

There’s a quiver at the foundation

as the three lines in the darkening sky

play a sad song.

 

I was sucked into the vacuum

and I couldn’t look away.

 

Jealousy.  Anger.  Rage.

Usually starts from small things.

I asked myself how units collapse.

 

It’s not always infidelity.

Maybe money.

Power.  Pride.  Ego.  Lack of ego.

Things that entangle us so easily.

 

Once a man holding the hand of a woman,

Like two red parallel lines holding hands,

then a third line, maybe a blue one drawn in between

when a third party joins;

Man, woman, child.

 

Then somewhere along the rounds,

when the hours turn into millennia,

the red lines get fatter, or skinnier

with wealth, or shame, or greed or pain.

 

The two red lines

each change direction

they start running adjacent.

Child stops running

becomes the pivotal point

that directly or indirectly opposes

the lines from disconnecting.

 

Plates and glasses shatter

The application of force on what once was

the fragility of a priceless jewel.

 

Seek the approval from plastic,

when china dinnerware on the walls become too stoic.

Or is it all money again?

 

She said be sure he’ll be there for at least 18 years,

and if you get pregnant run.

 

It’s not that you walk in blind.

It’s that you gamble,

throw two dice on the table

and hope chance will save you.

 

I wasn’t scared,

but I’m reluctant.

 

Light up bond fires as bright as a million suns

but light can’t escape black holes

and before you know it,

there will be a man and a woman

fighting over objects on the monopoly board.

 

Jealousy. Anger.  Rage.

It’s not always infidelity that violates the unit.

Is it money?

Power.  Pride.  Ego.  Lack of ego.

 

I couldn’t look away

I was hypnotised in sadness

as though it was happening to me

past the bus window and far away

into the air, eyes transfixed

on sugar cane fields and mountains.

 

Gavel, gowns, scale of justice

falling from the skies,

with drowning piano sounds that intoxicate.

 

A unit potent like mountain cliffs

yet meagre and too easily broken

like cracked pillars that collapse.

 

Why does love dry out

and why does coldness spread over the floors

walls and faces?

 

At the crossing another said don’t

look through that lens.

But how can I un-look

when the papers clasping their hands,

get on their knees

to beg you to be cautious?

 

I still agree with the first,

throw a twig, and create storms,

but don’t let yourself be sucked into the storm you create.

 

I’m lost in waterfalls

this,

you know it’s chance, and it’s a gamble,

so your only option is faith.

 

Believe that it will be fair,

close your eyes,

and jump into uncertainty.

Maybe you’ll surprise yourself

when you’re still holding hands in golden jubilee.

 

Let’s say green vegetables, on the shelves of Woolworths.

Something you don’t like but you know it’s good for you

in the long run.

I think I’d rather choose

something along those lines.

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