Four Number Cloggers Versus Me, Their Dog

We were alone in the basement.

He was grip-filling noggin, me up a ladder
cable tying festoons; when his admission came
beneath the roar of burners, the radio chog.
I listened, bookended by caveats
and with Paxolin for a prop, he confided
that he had lost count of all the attempts
to end it all, the income tax fiddles,
maintenance shirks. In chilly Jocko Land

there was a daughter whose name he couldn’t recall –
same with his father (a Bougainville merc).
I listened and with conditions correct
came an excess of candour as he talked up
cuckolding publicans with a swift bunch of fives
(after bedding alewives), her indoors
with last night’s right hander. And I listened,
just listened. With the propane protesting

as it lagged all my cheeks and my best friend
the tea urn, dropping a hex and a ban.
Until a puff of pink gypsum,
and grimoire groaned. Voices were approaching
and poly-sole footfall – entente postponed.
My steps were shaken, I fell to the floor –
four number cloggers versus me, their dog;
beneath the roar of burners, the radio chog.

You can hear them, if you listen.

---

I’ll Know When She Walks In

Us lads left our stilled beds 
        like goats in lust
for the trouble pub. Mates?
No, not mates – we were shipping lanes apart.

Denim was my only friend. Denim
         and a thermal vest. Yet, 
we come together 
for the trouble pub 
where coke eyes on zipwires 
           greet you at the door.

Come together to wring out the promise 
     of a Friday night 
before life slips back 
to boilerplate. 

We stood at balcony for a look-see 
amidst the yield 
  of cold cathode, electric blue. Happy
despite ourselves
    and all smudged 
      from supping raw surge.
 
I searched for my tea rose, 
       my Edith swan neck
with hands cupped in unreasoning hope
    for a girl 
       with a come forward style; yet 
tactile, tender. 
             With a shine I can maintain.

I will be her pilot light, you know.
       And never go out. 
Please don’t make me go out, again.
I can be her oily rag
        she’ll use my lumbar for her plinth. 

Who is this daughter of chaos?
I’ll know when she walks in.