Andrew Burke

 

From The Centre Out


It felt very strange, putting the needle down.

Was she black or white? It felt very strange, putting the needle down. I once knew a guy we called King.

The story evolves from the centre out, not linear like written language, so keep your eyes and ears peeled. Was she black or white? When it comes down to it, I think various tribes came from various sources. It felt very strange, putting the needle down. Jimmy insists he is not partially deaf—just has a hearing impairment. I once knew a guy we called King. Birdsong is linear, except kookaburras when laughter falls out like a split garbage bag. 

Once I thought jokes held our family together—and music. The story evolves from the centre out, not linear like written language, so keep your eyes and ears peeled. Time is a measure of change. Was she black or white? It’s a different form of creativity for CD covers. When it comes down to it, I think various tribes came from various sources. I’m upstairs now with the turntable and they are downstairs with their family stories. It felt very strange, putting the needle down. My father brought home a turntable, a pick-up he called it, which coupled up with alligator clips to the radio speakers. Jimmy, our host, insists he is not partially deaf—just has a hearing impairment. The album cover shows her to be white, perhaps. I once knew a guy we called King. Billy Thorpe was big news, singing with the Aztecs at Surf City up in the Cross. Birdsong is linear, except kookaburras when laughter falls out like a split garbage bag. They are climbing out on limbs of the family tree, identifying and shaking their heads in love or mystery.

This table is made from the jarrah floorboards of Jimmy’s old office, you know, when he had the yard. Once I thought jokes held our family together—and music. Way out here in the bush, trees grow unfettered by powerlines and ancient ideas of English gardens. The story evolves from the centre out, not linear like written language, so keep your eyes and ears peeled. More wine? Time is a measure of change. Because the old dualisms of melody and beat shift and change, each generation (each decade for the marketing gurus), has its own music. Was she black or white? Most times you can hear the emotion in the voice. It’s a different form of creativity for CD covers. Globalisation is reducing popular music to muzak, don’t you think?  When it comes down to it, I think various tribes came from various sources. We used to dance and sing these songs at the top of our lungs! I’m upstairs now with the turntable and they are downstairs with their family stories. Morgana King goes with an Old Style Red. It felt very strange, putting the needle down. What’s keeping you up there? My father brought home a turntable, a pick-up he called it, which coupled up with alligator clips to the radio speakers. Years later I had a tranny-six on the beach, hearing the Hit Parade through tinny speakers against the sound of the surf and the whistling wind. Jimmy, our host, insists he is not partially deaf—just has a hearing impairment. My wife is downstairs talking about their childhood with her sister, how she protected her, the time when, and all the memories overlap and the tales become one Big Tale like a patchwork rug. The album cover shows her to be white, perhaps. For some reason, the unreasonable linking of memories, a twisted limb of family history, I hear Noel Coward at Las Vegas as I turn the volume up on the Tijuana Brass. I knew a guy we called King once. My first fulltime job in a manufacturing factory in Sydney, King was a monosyllabic pencil-thin boy in his late teens, with long blonde hair and tight jeans. Billy Thorpe was big news, singing with the Aztecs at Surf City up in the Cross. I spent my nights at the El Rocco listening to John Sangster, Errol Buddle, et al. Birdsong is linear, except kookaburras when laughter falls out like a split garbage bag. They are picking through the tip of old times as I walk downstairs. They are climbing out on limbs of the family tree, identifying and shaking their heads in love or mystery. Took you long enough, my wife says.
April 2008



Perth to Broome Flight
1

Water reflects
our passage as we fly
over red-roof houses
with pools like hand mirrors
flashing the sun,

town planner’s design
exposed from above
like the rise and fall
of biography.

All tales below lie
in mankind’s epic print
on the vast landscape
with its pocket-handkerchief towns,
topography over-
written by harsh seasons
and boardroom reasons,
land above sold
for wealth beneath.

 2

… like a mirror image
I write more beside
the broken fenceline
of before, ears pop-
ping under pressure,
language minimal
in the rattle and hum
of a Boeing 737.

Black armbands
beside red-dirt roads,
microcosm images
like microscope slides.

Ancient land without
tongue, I am dumb
before your parched stains
and burnt veins in
the lean muscles
of your body.







 


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