Last Drinks at Byron Bay
when all the backpackers
are stacked back in their buses
when the surf is as flat as the Nullabor
when the sand-castle-king is washed by the tide
when the wind has blown sand over the steps of man
when shop eat and shop ‘til you drop
has deadlocked the door and emptied the parking lot/
and to market to market to buy that sarong
has swept the park, grabbed a beer a takeaway, then gone
when the cloak of clouds has covered the cape
and the ink of night has stained the sea/
when we’re burnt by the sun and salted by the waves
when our Byronesque names become:
Oberon and Titania and Puck and DJ and Trance,
and we danced with love and we danced with money
and the mirror-ball spins from the rock to the sand
to the pub to the pillow/where the strangers kiss
and their hands are on fire
and their lips run rivers over skin/
where there are no days no hours when the night stops
when the blackout stops the town
stops all the electric clocks/
and the merry-go-round of stars scarring the night
and when all the sperm have drowned in their condoms
when the animal sadness wakes after the loving/
when we’ve read all the eyes on the street
that the sunglasses hide on the beach/
when the money doesn’t matter
the money matters
and when the cops arrive at dawn
and pull the plugs on the doof/
when the cyberdelic-triberdelic dreadlocks unwind
when the dance is done and the drugs have unwound
when Fast Eddie’s jokes have sped from the town
and when the television’s killed
any culture that’s left to be killed/
when the shark gets the fisherman like Jack gets Jill
and the cameras catch the thrill
and the taxpayers foot the bill…
when the cast of thousands
becomes a one-man show:
a fire-eater fire-walker fire-twirler
the feral with a fire-stick
like a child with a sparkler/
a mouth of burning metho spraying the twilight
(the crowd’s delight)…
and the little drummer boy
drums for a tiny dancer
(emails the moon)
busking for coins
for soft words over cyber-coffee-cups
(crying for attention)
in a salt-crusted town of love and sex
and surf and cafes and DJs and dance parties/
where the troubled and twisted dance with the tanned and the trim
where there is no drought no winter
where the horizon is curved water
when the town is transient in the dreamtime/
where sun-painted people (painted with youth)
and age won’t defeat beauty (not this weekend)
and every dawn rises a holy holiday
when there are NO last drinks at Byron Bay
when the big bus-turnaround rolls the faces into town:
trainlines track-marks highways upgrade byways/
a mainline vacuums into an endless carnival of sand people
under the 15 second sweep of the lighthouse glow
where the seawinds ever blow
the tides draped high and low/
the traffic’s breath test and sniffer dogs
and the dude’s ‘yo’…
where god is good hair
where hot is cool//chill is filth
and the mobile’s ringing in the parties
dot com don’t come hold on I’m a’coming!
the raging Lord Byron plants his foot on the pedal/
and Byron’s Bay is:
a tattoo-blue ocean
a ship of red wine
a cape of sunrise kisses
and a 10am checkout time.
.
David Hallett |
