Reads: 134  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A madman journeys south from Yoogali, with predictable consequences.

Submitted: January 13, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 13, 2012




‘twas terrible cold in Melbourne town,

The wind and the rain and the chill,

Four hundred kilometres I did drive,

To see a German on Box Hill.

It was a communication breakdown,

She was going to call by phone,

But I got sent an email,

Telling me to arrive alone.

Maybe I got confused

When I ventured there last week,

Whereas I’m usually sometimes brave

Down there I felt terribly meek.

I saw some of Coburg and Brunswick,

And ventured into Fitzroy,

Until I saw Lucrezia and de Sade

Were selling bondage toys.

Something deep down told me

To turn up in person

And write some better poetry

With a smattering of German.

I turned up dead on noon

The time of my appointment

But the news of my arrival

Soon brought disappointment.

But I was told by a secret voice

To turn up at your rooms

By mobile or was it the internet

May 11, Box Hill, Noon.

So I sat down and recited

My psychological derision

Citing my own unpublished verse

To prove a superior position.

But she was a councillor

And they hold all the tricks.

“Your poetry is worthless

Go back to the sticks.”

The phrase inspired my action

And I took it as an order

Drove all the way to Tocumwal

Across the Murray border.

Jerilderie, Narrandera, Leeton

I took the scenic route

But all I saw was a mouse plague

Not by Albert Camus.

Finally Yoogali

Home and a warm bed

I ain’t going away again

Not until I’m dead.

© Copyright 2018 Craig Davison. All rights reserved.