Kings Cross

Back in the 70s I lived near Kings Cross in Sydney (the red light district for those who may not know). I spent a lot of time wandering around there, fascinated by the people, life, glitz, pain and passion.

I wrote three poems back then that reflect some of that. Not the happiest of observations, but very real at the time.

Bohemian

Bohemians night wave

   Ever bright, never right

Moving through neons

   Whores boredom's delight

      A farce, tight through the night

Boots glitter with steel

Raking laughter through gutters to sheol

Hot malt sweet air slices the chill

Inciting tempers, baiting the kill

Mechanical hearts!

Porch Light

The ringing of silence

Invades his ears

He listens to the voices and steps

   of distant revellers

Wending home to a morning after

The porch lights silhouette silk hair

And his eyes glitter in street fluorescents

A love song from a wailing tom

   hopeful excuses, avoided

   perhaps a tear

   or a smile and a sigh

A look and he's seen and understood

So the door closes and the light dies

And he turns to count weary steps home

Mutton

She sat, pensive and transfixed

   at her own mirror image

Brush poised to stoke away vain fears

   her hand then flowed

And bristles pulled at memories

   of the future

Each decisive stroke jerked and slowed

   trailing off at static split ends

Mutton dressed as lamb, some would say

A glance would confirm

   Lipstick a shade too bright

   Rouge a shade too red

   Lashes a thickness too black

And eyes that glared

   conceit and pride

   softness and tears, welling up and over the brink of self pity

A lifetime taken its toll

The world beaten out a mould for her

   and those who would pass and see

   would pour a little more of her into it

She had a place, amongst the shabby people

The dead artists and those who would not die

Fluttering through past flames of glory, or illusion

She would be there

   stoking the blaze

Alive with the fear of an empty room

Delicately she would skim the top

   off her bowl of life

seeing each time how little was left

   slowly congealing

   like the blood in her veins

   and the bitterness in her soul