Happy hour reverie

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Selected poems


Happy hour

Amber brethren unified over glazed tables,
cracked leather chairs groaning under the burden of another weary apprentice.
Here's to the blackened crust on a Parma special
and to being pricked by an unofficial entry tithe.

I lack an opinion on the politics of this golden age that amounts to more than a quotation. Yes, these are free hearts, free minds —
at least for the time being. Or at least to the loving regard
of a reasonable bystander.

Douse me in the balm of mellifluous chatter.
Let me move amorously down
through this molten journey
until I am left suckling at the dregs in my comfortably reduced environ,
tending towards something
that approaches
what some might call

Chaucer Crescent

French Provincial style, they call it.
I see a concrete bunker.
That slight scorn is not a hopeless hankering for the Wattled thirties.

I always preferred writing to literature,
building to architecture,
a house to inhabited sculpture.
Did you buy anything at the NGV?

I don't want to go backwards.
I just want the straight hedges
and the white kitty litter pebbles spread over cookie cutter cubes
to be ripped from the ground.

Alternatively, I would still be content if revolting weeds slowly choked their borders or if concrete rot
crept insidiously inwards as it did in Brasilia.
The worst thing is that
this village was not built on scrappy highland earth as
misguided metaphor for a reborn utopian polis.
They tore down their terrace,
ripped out their myrtle, banished their shade
replaced the brick path
to their snail filled letterbox.

In their place?
Bare temples bloating outwards,
silver sleds,
grey garages,
plunge pools lit by blue bulbs.


Dougal HurleyDougal Hurley is a postgraduate law student at Melbourne University..

Topic tags: Dougal Hurley, poetry



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Existing comments

Sharp and elegant. Thanks.
Peter Goers | 28 June 2016

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