Unmanned | Page 7

of butter
you got the job?and thats a fact ask?Bob the Builder
who shook the hand?of Banjo Patterson though?no-one believes him.
Theres not one?finial or mullion round?Boomi that hasnt
his name on it;?he was there with the ox?& swivel chain.
When he couldnt?make a deaner he went bumper?shooting in the 30s
way back before?the Great War the first of the?street kids in Ultimo,
and his father?(hell tell you) saw electricity?come to Tamworth in 1888.
From Tilba Tilba?to Bondi, the last of the?Sugarbag Carpenters.
Aunty Eve
who always kept the Aspidistras?flying high up in her Georgian house on?the windy Terrace from marble urns
had lipstick bomber pilot red?& nails the colour of flame.
It was often elevenses in her lounge?with Gordons served on a silver platter and?THE GRAND HOTEL, DUNEDIN 1932 engraved
on the rim. Another stim dear??from the mahogany sideboard repository to dozens?of weighty 78 jazz records in brown paper?jackets stacked like so many ossified flapjacks.
Oh she had the most beautiful hands (in her?day) they said, used for commercials in the?Womens Weekly & Booths the Chemists.
Who could forget her gravel voice & make up?mannequin thick
not remember her gin-sweet?breath warm upon the neck? And how some Yank?billeted during WW2 (here) ducky!?thought she was a real living doll.
Oh such beautiful hands she had & the crystal light?streaming forth from those great bay windows
onto the iron railings below.
Harold Lloyd
is stridently hanging on for?dear life from the Big Clock hand?reading 12:30 twenty floors up in NYC?dangling a gibbet jig on the ledge?beneath his girl with the bob cut?screaming soundlessly as he catapults?past the big businessman whose fist?is foreclosed like a bank on their?undying love which against all odds is?saved as he grabs at the flagpole?angled stark as an erection from the?side of the building on the way through?the office window only to upset the?cooler and startle the typing pool?then back down the zigzag emergency?exit skittling the fire-bucket to snatch?the fire-hose & bungy jump down?the side of the skyscraper while the?keystone cops are toppling in omnibuses?furiously toward the wrong address?at odds with the clanging fire brigade?a cavalry charge amongst a confusion?of ladders & outsize helmets?pointing the way into the fray?continuously as down drops Harold free?falling as only a spider can to be?pulled up short one foot from the side?walk under the canopied foyer entrance?as darling thing hurtles into?the stripy canvas awning where Harold?catches her in his stiff upheld arms to?the astonished joy of the hotel porter
Conrad & Wells & Co.
Great to have met Joseph Conrad?or for that matter, HG Wells, who said,?Lets go upstairs and do nice things?with our bodies, and who did just?that to take a tilt at the waitress.?I saw them once, Conrad & Wells, in?a photograph, standing together.?A courtyard setting beside a few bamboo?chairs. The hour was mild in a black?& white afternoon. Trees, too,?green galleons shipping oars in Autumn.?Conrad had, perhaps, cast off the last line?of a novel: the indigo lump upon the?horizon is an Island: behind it the sun?spilling its treasure trove: the rent?sailcloth of a sea-squall. Anyway,?he could still smell the coast wobble from?the deck of the Tartane, her weight?to the wind. Wells, maybe, was thinking on?socialism & science, and in some?melancholic way of the waitress, she all?ascent. By what conversations did?they measure each other, these two voyagers?who possessed that sense of the bigness?of the world? For Wells, an electrical?spark that arced across the white page, and?for Conrad, each word creaking on?the blocks, the woman pale before the moon,?her eyes black as tornadoes at sea.
Hoppalong Cassidy
nearly topples as the Jaffas rumble?down the aisle escarpment which in no way?disturbs Bully Boy in the back seat?corner of the matinee session on a Saturday?afternoon flick with it might be Bus Stop?Bev with one leg hooked in surrender?over the front seat that youd think shes?getting shod or something judging by the?whinnying which could be some sort of scuffle?but then Hoppy regains the ground & the?white Arabian stallion muscling to middle?screen his ten-gallon hat gum stuck atop?his head & his pearl handled six shooters?bristling at each hip as he thunders?round the dusty back lot who has just saved?the stage coach with the backward spinning?wheels out of last weeks cliffhanging?disaster when over it went packed with?the good townsfolk but it didnt all saved by?the man in the black velvet with the silver?studs & turkey gobble voice much to the hand?pumping appreciation of the circuit judge?too old to take the high jump & this?real paternal dude takes it in his stride?is off next week in search of the Lost?Dutchmans Gold Mine as legend has it but?not for long while Bully Boy will be?back sweaty as a farrier with Lemonade Lil?to catch what he can with Hoppy sure?is a friend indeed when a friends in need
Bob Orr
I called back down the unawakened?dawn of the Tasman sea and along the East?Coast from the pre-dawn light of?my sleep, I called out Bob Orr?soft as the punch of a howitzer to the?Hokianga harbour