04-18-2016, 08:27 AM
The motel in Dubbo (with a passing reference to rubber and Erthona's poem)
When the theme is 'rubber' people naturally think of sex
but poets try to be clever, and discourse about other
things only tangentially related to rubber
like a children's model Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I won't do that here, instead
I'll talk to you, reader, about a dirty little motel in Dubbo, bed
and breakfast, 10 rooms about 5x5x3, such are its specs.
At reception, sits a little white girl in a minidress
(everyone should dress so, who doesn't have hairy legs)
behind her, a ridiculous stuffed egret
with a rubber beak that's a refashioned dildo.
Behind the bird hides a dark secret -
since the owner went missing last fall
no one bothered to search for him bricked up in a wall.
He's alive, but bereft of a meaningful occupation
since January has gone into aestivation.
It doesn't help that the little white girl flashing her long
legs (everyone should flash so, who doesn't have a schlong)
has cranked up the heater for her little white butt to bake
thereby ensuring that the owner doesn't wake.
Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, an undiscovered party
of Aborigines of the Kurri Kurri clan are stealing upon a power station
on Lake Macquarie. For years they were dreaming in a cavern 'neath the lake
when a longwall broke their slumber. So dispatching the miners they walked out the adit
and found their sacred lands overrun with rabbits. This they didn't like
and turning their ire on the Eraring power station
seek to avenge the ruin of their nation
on the Hunter turnpike.
In a hour or two, they will rain down their woomeras on the maintenance crew
and trip the boiler, which will send a blackout rolling through country NSW,
upset the anti-coal lobby plastering 'likes' on Facebook pages
extolling the lifestyle of simpler stone ages,
turn off the heater, whence the little white girl will put on her habit
(she's a nun, really), then hear the wall whisper, its owner awake
asking for water, anything really, for a few months' thirst to slake.
But she will think it's the devil, his whisper the rustle of a snake,
and shoot a bullet through the brickwork, and the brain of the owner shall grab it.
When the theme is 'rubber' people naturally think of sex
but poets try to be clever, and discourse about other
things only tangentially related to rubber
like a children's model Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I won't do that here, instead
I'll talk to you, reader, about a dirty little motel in Dubbo, bed
and breakfast, 10 rooms about 5x5x3, such are its specs.
At reception, sits a little white girl in a minidress
(everyone should dress so, who doesn't have hairy legs)
behind her, a ridiculous stuffed egret
with a rubber beak that's a refashioned dildo.
Behind the bird hides a dark secret -
since the owner went missing last fall
no one bothered to search for him bricked up in a wall.
He's alive, but bereft of a meaningful occupation
since January has gone into aestivation.
It doesn't help that the little white girl flashing her long
legs (everyone should flash so, who doesn't have a schlong)
has cranked up the heater for her little white butt to bake
thereby ensuring that the owner doesn't wake.
Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, an undiscovered party
of Aborigines of the Kurri Kurri clan are stealing upon a power station
on Lake Macquarie. For years they were dreaming in a cavern 'neath the lake
when a longwall broke their slumber. So dispatching the miners they walked out the adit
and found their sacred lands overrun with rabbits. This they didn't like
and turning their ire on the Eraring power station
seek to avenge the ruin of their nation
on the Hunter turnpike.
In a hour or two, they will rain down their woomeras on the maintenance crew
and trip the boiler, which will send a blackout rolling through country NSW,
upset the anti-coal lobby plastering 'likes' on Facebook pages
extolling the lifestyle of simpler stone ages,
turn off the heater, whence the little white girl will put on her habit
(she's a nun, really), then hear the wall whisper, its owner awake
asking for water, anything really, for a few months' thirst to slake.
But she will think it's the devil, his whisper the rustle of a snake,
and shoot a bullet through the brickwork, and the brain of the owner shall grab it.
~ I think I just quoted myself - Achebe