Rooster

I first met him

one early morning

at the front door to the apartment

above the corner café

He’d come around

to fuck Suzy

cuz he knew her boyfriend

PJ

wasn’t ‘round

 

He was the scariest man

I’d ever

met

He’d been 

in

and

out

of prison 

most his life

We were shocked

when he didn’t

go back 

 

The most recent

court case

he’d been hit

in the head

with a brick

and lifted the cocksucker’s leg up

broke the bone through skin

with his foot

 

He had a plate

in his jaw

from another 

fight

after Race’s Day

drunk

at a bus stop

 

He moved in

a week later

his clothes

in three plastic bags

and his pea green

old road bike

He had

his kid's names

tattooed

over his heart

 

He had the darkest eyes

Even browner than yours

“Sorry about this”

He’d say about the

lump on his arm

courtesy

the black box

 

He told me his nickname was Rooster

because once

as a child

he’d snapped off

the chicken’s heads

in the backyard

(Turns out the epithet

was his dad’s)

 

He was an

amazing cook

He sharpened 

the kitchen knives

and they were like bayonettes

Another time

he was shadow boxing

and punched Suzy

in the face

“You hit me in the fucking teeth!”

“Shut up cunt,

it’s over, it’s been done”

 

Quick before it rains

I’m robbing

this stage coach

A poet and don’t know it

Mussi, yarndi

You want to scalp me

The merlot started flowing

Things he used to say

He’d tell stories 

all the time

maybe like ex-cons do

Maybe because

he was always drunk

 

When he found out

my grandfather

used to be a steward

at the trots

He told me

we’d ring him up

drunk

on Melbourne Cup

and ask for his tips

Coast to coast

wild Kamilaroi

wild Scot

 

When I got over

worry

getting smashed

he told me

he was gunna

take me out

to the pub 

at ten am

and drink three

schooners

in twenty minutes

to start the day

But I never did

 

On my lunch break

from work

he was smoking hydro

and drinking port

I had a beer

but couldn’t do

the smoke

He could barely stand up

 

When he wasn’t drunk

he was quiet

We’d sit in the loungeroom

smoking White Ox

and Peter Stuys

He had an old,

wise laugh

We’d watch the Ashes

and he knew about the 

cricket

“He’ll bowl a cutter.

Next, 

he’ll bowl

off. OK,

boy,

now get this white cunt out!”

A mix cd

compiled 

by

his youngest

Favorite song

Archie Roach

‘Mission ration blues’

amazed,

“That’s all we ever had!”

It has a good riff

Another favourite 

Jimmy Cliff

Midnight 

Rooster

and James 

Drinking beer

drinking port

yarndi 

You can get it

if you 

really 

want it

I woke up drunk

to turn it down

“Not too soft!

we’ve gotta hear it cunt!”

Maybe the

last

time

I saw him

next morning

still awake

7 am

taxi outside

to drive them

to the train 

to Sydney

to score

a big rock of ice

I thought I’d

write

a story

using his lingo

But I keep

thinking about

him

still

all these years

I love him

So I’m glad

I didn’t do that

 

He ain’t ‘round

he’s out there

somewhere

He’s gone now

so I’ll stop

talking about him

Aphex Twin on Ventolin

This morning I am listening to music on random play. 

A song comes on — Ventolin, (Carharrack Mix), Aphex Twin — and I find myself drawn to the song and listening to it as if for the first time, such was my appreciation for the pleasant vibrations my ears’ experience. I had been familiar with the remix years ago but never really given it much repeated listening or even much thought. Perhaps because the mix of white noise in the original had hurt my ears too much and worried my existing tinnitus I’d been hesitant to re-experience as such in the remixes. I played the song twice on repeat, which is something I usually don’t do. Probably I should tell you how it sounds. Supposedly the Aphex Twin wrote the song to replicate the sound of an asthma attack.

Later after lunch I am walking around the dilapidated heritage buildings of the Cumberland hospital campus. A stranger walking in the carpark flags me down. He is wearing thongs and while a humid day it does strike me he is perspiring more than should be. 

“Excuse me, but do you know if there are any nurses around?”

“Sorry, it’s not really that type of hospital.”

“OK. It’s just my doctor is on the North coast and I need some Ventolin.”

I’d love to draw your attention to more description of the stranger. 

“I’m not sure, but maybe try some of the (drug) clinics over there?”

The man walks off — rather slow and not short of breath — and I think FUCK if you wrote that in a story, in a scene, no one would believe it because it’d be too forced. 

I remember years back, in film class, watching an assessment screening of documentaries for second year. One of the docos was about lesbian lovers and one of the lovers has cancer. Talking head style, she tells us when she was at the doctor’s office and first diagnosed, the first thing she did was walk outside and hug a tree. Rolling credits the lovers are in the park with the trees, no sound 'cuz the filmmakers forgot that piece of gear. End title tells us lover has since passed. Ken Miller the lecturer turns around and goes “Wow! Real life, huh. If you wrote that in a fiction film, no one would ever believe you.”

Now I am writing this and you are reading it.