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ARTS AND CULTURE

Two people in a garage

  • 13 December 2007

_____

Trenchcoat I wore fine, grey Katherine Hepburn trousers but my cheekbones were apples — I had to try harder. I joined the trail of turpentine and cigarettes. My shoes clicked on the wooden boards. Traces of blood beaded on the glass. I nearly drowned in fulfilment, surfacing like a batfish gaping at scraps. My first lover, we lay without love while overdubbed guitars spiralled into the air, sad like op shop ladies beautiful like the blues. I watched how you did things, took your chief weapon, strode into a dark corner and fell face down off my life. Two weeks with you: a love affair without love — you, it sensations that halt sensation. Work No words only our breathing — two people in a garage. Workbenched, love-bolted. Quiet flits like wood dust. Rough surfaces catch small sounds. My father and me, constructing memories. He glues, mixing resins with medical art. I carve aluminium, butter-soft, young. My vice holds a Chinese pictogram with a promise of luck. I urge my fretsaw carefully through the maze. The tools are a language he will teach me to speak: screwdriver-hammer-longnosepliers unused like spices, twinned to the wall, shadowing themselves. I coast on a lull, the air sawdust-spattered. Soon, I will lose the Chinese pendant and he will finish building a boat. He will leave me with a brass fob-watch that has stopped then turn his attention to a project with no name. Autobiography in six lines I walk down the street and get mugged by five punks __suddenly my legs fall off and a brick falls from the sky and hits me on the head __ and I go blind and I think I don't like this street much and then I think __ there's safety in numbers so as long as I keep all my selves to myself __ I'll never be alone and I can always count on solitude and things __ happening for a reason so I knew you came along to remind me of something __ some reason to lose my head and give in again now people approach me and make comments __ about my shoes; how they like them where I got them and I say: that's not a shoe __ that's a small dog down there and more bricks fall but this time I move well aside __ and nothing hits me and with my shoes although legless, I walk away