MELBOURNE SET TO ERIC SATIE
Collins Street,
5:00pm is now not much
as John
Brack painted it in ’55 -
the bland
semi-gloss browns, po faces, old man hats
are gone.
The trams remain
and
Federation Square is a curious snowflake
refusing to
melt.
O Melbourne
Leave me a
little corner of Rococo
where
demitasses clink in conspiracy
and the
illumination is flattering
in the
blueness of morning when my face
is still
creased by trammelled hotel linen.
Sydney is a
whore; Melbourne, a lady -
a splinter
of Europe that has drifted south.
Around the broad
shit-streak Yarra
the towers
and domes rise like crescendos –
a museum of
fantasy architecture
far from
Cythera.
St Patrick’s
neo-gothic spires stab at my life.
At sunrise
and sunset, and piped in
through the
night Full fiery the angels fell,
and
flames were lapping at their shores
accompanied
only by my addictions,
the city,
and the trams.
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