Act 7

The sun; he hovers there. He’s soaked in smoke. He evenly masks the receding streets of city. All the while The At-Risk (Yet Optimistic) Young Indigenous Male walks up the terrace.

The Terrace sits there stationary as she’s walked over by breathing body masses. Aglow in the throes of what COULD be a warzone. But that is, in fact, NOT a warzone. But is, instead, a mere ‘nother day.

A Friday. Fried pavement with granite undertones. Stationary ‘neath the scuttling of human and vehicle bones. In motion. In the middle of a heave-ho. In roundabouts and stop starts and hat drops and exhaust farts.

Braided heavy metal cords and cables vibrate beneath her; The Terrace, injecting a semblance of life.

The At-Risk (Yet Optimistic) Young Indigenous Male ponders the requirements of his freshly born (C)onditional (S)uspended (I)mprisonment (O)rder; black ink on white paper like cotton stained by the splatters of placental blood.

He sits down on some neglected red brick steps that date back to the early 1920’s. He scratches his foot and soaks in the scents of the city burning. Across from him he sees the ground get ripped up by big metal digging arms. Lunging and slamming. The noise is quite abrasive but he’s heard those screams before.

There’s a pin drop,. There’s some water. There’s everything that was there before. There are remains preserved in the cool and soft soil – upturned and disturbed. There’s his mother’s memory and his eight former foster homes.

The Disgruntled Ex British Military Man walks past; reminiscing about the time his Thai wife left him after exploiting their loveless marriage for Australian citizenship – the memory manifests itself amongst his pompous afternoon jive step as he contemplates what his verdict might be.

He throws a 10 cent coin to the ground that had been lodged in the sleeve of his old jacket after taking a long path throughout the maze of the jacket’s structure. It entered through a hole in his heavily decayed pocket and exited through a fresh perforation on his sleeve wall.

The coin hits a large 400mmx400mm concrete slab and gently slips through it, like a thin delicate metal finger falling through a bowl of custard putty. The coin falls 1000m to the Terrace floor and feels her heartbeat thump against his face that wears the expression of Elizabeth II smiling.

“and so they all gob off” The terrace says “Gob off is a poxy English expression for talking shit” she says as she rolls over and attempts to rest awhile before the sun sinks his nails into her flank and the moon subdues itself in her womb.


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