Lord of the Flies
10:07 at central station,
platform one, too many
overcoats. walked
wide steps. lord of the
flies, roslyn theatre.
led bulbs reddened
with flesh. it is what it is.
returned under dense night.
now soundless, thinking.
said people like flies.
i laughed. moon
the head of pig. then cried,
preying by want. through
the bloodied landscape.
of quickening restaurants
and stale-dough perfume.
talks measured in meters,
wind-torn. walking with friend.
said the play something
about silenced democracy.
couldn’t vote for the lord.
this body. tumbling feet.
soreful winter. too cold
tonight. how are you?
she asked. my neck
pressed to train’s window.
said don’t know anymore.
thinking of the one
who left in november.




the restaurants’ burn of whiskey
soaked the air
around us, how the sky paled
in today’s weight
of course it looked
like a corpse from afar
no, I – you looked
like that & the year
gone. the year being
plastered everywhere I go
& see the frame
its skeleton
looked like a body
kept enlarging
that the immensity of blue
& our draining lips


This poem was produced as part of a series, published in partnership with Sweatshop: Western Sydney Literacy Movement. Editorial support for each poem published in A Sweatshop in a Red Room, has been provided by Winnie Dunn.