the asylum is green dust. not the green of fresh leaves, but the green of skies falling, the green of clouds opening, the green of hailstorms. green dust rises but does not fall. green dust floats in tormented corridors. green dust touches saffron robes and indifferent coroners. motes of green dust mingle with wafts of singed hair. layers of green dust spread like encrusting coral on deep-water gates. threads of green dust stitching yellow-buttoned madness. green dust buzzing like phosphorescent bees over nightmare stew.
green dust shadows on a moonless night concealing condemned geniuses. shadows inside brown-buckled straightjackets. disinfected shadows stretched over piss-stained gurney-scarred floors. silent shadows seeking audiences. screaming shadows cast upon dilapidated walls. honey-coated electric-shadows seeping from shock-pad temples. distorted shadows drip from slanted faces. suicide-watch shadow. bedframe shadow. sighing-door shadow. torn-sheet noose shadow. swinging shadows of green dust and lithium.
lithium rolling-doors and corner-less walls, save and deliver, sliding-windows and razor-sharp wolves. lithium children, count and dispense, two-tablets three-times daily. lithium snow, powder and shower, chemical straightjackets. decision-making lithium. double-vision lithium. wasted-mind lithium. manic-depressive lithium. sedated-zombie lithium. transcend the prison of lithium. transcend the green dust and the shadows.
Louise Crisp says: she grew up in hard country meaning, she was free to wander. I say: I grew up in soft country meaning, I was free to wonder. The rainforest mountains sheltered me in nurturing undulation. A tanned kelpie followed my scent upstream. We ate from tropical fruit trees with abundant exoticness. Swollen rivers often left gullies full of water. The music was as consistent as the rain. Even the cicadas had rhythmic purpose. In creek corners we hunted crystals. The canopy was my home, and it was anything but silent. With nothing but harmonies, even in the pitch black dark, I never felt alone. How else can I explain rainforest-dwelling?
Summer in Byron Bay
The season is a damp dollar sign. A sign that the humidity is bearable but the traffic is not. A sign that the mould is barely tolerable and the mozzies won’t stop. When rivers swell and roads vanish beneath puddles—puddles so deep, if ducks landed they’d be relabeled ponds—when unrelenting nor-easterlies push carnivals of wind all summer long. When sandy beaches are blemished by bluebottles and floating trumpets embellish our footpaths, all mauve and miniature. When ripening papayas nourish and brushturkeys flourish in yesterday’s rubbish. When clouds of bats tarnish dragon fruit sunsets. When early down town is still quiet and stylish, and in the street a boozy scent mingles with that of espresso, when the aromas are all singed and overpriced and as heavy as damp dollar signs.