Painting Floors the All Season Colour Brown From the Perspective of an Australian Cricketer

Nick very kindly stole the letterbox numbers from a house up the street and gave them to me as a graduation present. This poem is by way of a thank you for Nick, who also gave me the idea for this poem, which is entitled:

My friend, a very well known Australian cricketer, Sir Donald Brown-Man, called and left the following message on my answering machine, and I quote,

"Hello. Look, er, I'm terribly sorry about your cricket bat. It... errrr It got left out in the rain and the ends have splayed like a chewed up toothpick. But your grand daddy thought it might be good to use for painting the floor now. He's got that cache of brown, made up from those two vital ingredients: yellow and blue!

He wants to meet you at that bar to discuss the use of your bat. I can't remember the name of it, but you know the one. You know the one where they serve tequila that leaves the taste of sand in your mouth? You know the one I mean, don't you? The one that's going down hill. Where they serve chips with gravy in a cup shaped like a heart muscle - it's disgusting. You know it? Yes? Well it's not that one - it's the other one that we always go to. Sorry, I've been acing the sedatives tonight - ay - and I just can't recall the name.

Any ways. Your grand daddy'll be there tonight. Later on. Jees - I wish I could remember the name. Me and Kyles went there last Wednesday and got carried away. I did a Mexican wave, kissed a curtin and let behind a blackened wall and box of memories I'll never get back.

Last thing I can see is where I came out of a visit to the toilets feeling a deep rhythm like a rock in your sleep. I noticed myself in the bar room mirror sliding a hand round your neck in time to my lips. And then the terror of waking up the next morning to the day that spat me up in the clothes of the night before, despising me lying there with tired feet. I hate that. But I do remember a spirit called, Bad-Star popped in when I got home from that place, Tchh, what's it called? That Bad-Star, it stole my smiles as punishment for some stupid thing I did. It ordered me to seek despair, to alleviate any hopes. It warned me to heed it's message else sometime indifferent buildings and chairs would begin to mock me. It told me to stop staring and then it called me a "Fucking Beetelmouth."

Any ways, that's the reason I can't accompany your Grand Dad and meet you tonight - because of that weirdness with that spirit.

But he'll be there. He's going to walk down from my house because he reckons that this city is a river of cars, festering the airs and waters of this colonial outpost we thought we owned. He prefers to walk. He left me a note to call and leave this message on your answering machine.

Oh - and he apologised for insulting your cat last week. He said it was because he was a complicated, friendly blue ear muff, strangled by isolation. I don't think he liked that movie you took him to see, the one with the actors carved from wood, who stand on the toes of our sensibilities.

Any ways - he's going to that place that we always go - you know, where the cognac's fine and warm. Where we eye boyfish in the vicinity, guffaw through food and dress in idle chit chatter HIP YEAARRRH... We go huntin' there.

By JESUS your Grand Dad can be the annoying one - can he not. You know what? He started making fun of me and my poem on the suggestiveness of the potato. He said "Donald, slut must be your favourite anagram for lust. You'd sleep with any old vegetable just to make you feel better. It's a problem of low self esteem." Would you mind telling him to stop watching those American Audience Chat Shows? Tell him it makes his skin glint and smell ugly. He'd believe anything if you say it weird enough for him.

Oh, and seeing as how he wants to paint the floor brown - that all season colour BROWN, because it's brown all year round - with your cricket bat, I've left it soaking in a bucket, to keep the ends nice and soft. I think this cricket brush could make interesting patterns. You might like to write a decorator's corner on it for Better Homes or Women's Weekly or something.

Yes. It's in a bucket at my house when you need it. Bye. Oh and call me if you remember the name of that damn bar... My brain slipped down into my belly with the onset of the wave of sedation I swallowed for this evening and I just can't think of it now. Have a good night I'd love to join you- but as I say, that business with the Bad Star spirit thing and all. I don't like to fuck with visitations and shit. Pop in after wards if you like. I'll be yelling at the television. Well I better go. Just remember - DO-ant stick your face in a hollow log. You don't know what will come of it."

Unquote
And then he hung up.

By Barbara Parnaby