Song 2 – 'Finding Warren'

It isn't long till we see the track, a little brown strip of washed rock, a dusty gulley - a fire-trail. Peter says nothing the entire way, he keeps pace methodically - sometimes I think I hear him counting steps, his face a mask, sweat beading on his forehead, where his eyebrows meet.

It’s Peter who spots it. He put his hand out, on my chest, it covers both pockets. He points and grunts - his first sound since the numbers trailed away at the top of the Tanami ridge. A shoe. A blue shoe.

I can’t see it at first, there’s so many burnt out cars up here, kid's fires, party sites you know? Faded Coke cans, one has ‘Barcelona 92’ on it. In of the wrecks - '68 Holden I reckon - was a shoe. A blue shoe. It just sticks out – isn’t the right colour for anything up here.

That’s when we see the rest of him...

No, not really, no

I'm not as well as you might suppose,
your timeline ticking out the back
my movement's drafted to the new-
age calendar for condolence and black tie

publicly, no arm-band for inquiry
nor gown and stalking cap -
mine's a sooty seamless dress half-
hemmed above my un-shaved legs

yes, it's eye-liner
that is a bomber-cut ball gown
in solid sarsaparilla and salt-etch
needle-work, a falling water-table

given this prom-confusion is
ineligible worn - how then are you to know
to ask so and so if I (through my perspiration
and bluster) logic out the hate?

I'm as righteous as I seem only to
seeming sight a dignity entrap -
snare a passing sympathiser, a dinner-party
mourner or a bright street-urchin's son

someone to make to ask to see
the place where it happened,
the depth of the way she walked
out and out past the bridal falls

for now, these tatters and theologies
rule only my intellect and fail,
in conveyance of the real and true
parochial, my un-okay-ness with it all

so you just ask 'Are we cool?'
the most ridiculous of questions dear
given the lack of status I now hold
if I could scream this I would.

No, not really, no.

2nd

tonight you can read lips,
and hers are begging you to
remember

at the game

I don't know tonight
what
indiscretion you and your
got up to

that each across the city
stood
under sky-light bursts
crimson and flared and

for you to wait was
too too much;
a sad sunday
when the rain's set in

I'm the push away
to make her feel
looser, a lighter
better she

and we, now anointed
have less than days to
part, I'm still cut out -
carved - indifferent

sweep through
lacerations of the scalp
and fevers of the drift
in your dreams to

now, the sick sliver
ineloquent wedged
between hark
and harken

our new separateness
driving with your eyes shut -
a vanity you set your
mind to

there's another part to play,
a rainy day
a regret, structured and festering
in hurt places

this end has become
a spectator sport -
piled high with cheap beer
at toilet queues

and I'm not fair anymore