George Anderson

two poems


I first met her
at a tent site
south of Narooma
at Mystery Bay
she lived in an
orange Kombi
van. I suppose it
was the bumper
stickers plastered
haphazardly on the
back window of her
vehicle which first attracted me to her:


She was certainly unusual
but in an interesting & amazing way.

In her Kombi
I was surprised,
astonished actually
when she placed
a couple of mussel shells
on my ears-
she told me gently
to keep my eyes closed.

At first it is like
I was meditating
searching the moment
focusing on the sounds around me.

She explains nothing
I like it that way
I go along with it
there’s nothing to lose
nothing at all.

There is at first
the careening fat buzz of flies
a remnant of an idea
only partially understood
the distant call of a Lye bird.

Within minutes
my ears
my mind
are for the very first time
like butterfly wings
flapping of their own volition
soaring free.

I hear things I never thought possible
I see things I never heard before.

I see the insides of a piano
all wires & springs
jiggling up & down
the whole time dancing
their praises to Art
to the imaginative life.

There is a barrage of clanging cymbals
a chorus of trumpets cascading from one
hemisphere of my brain to the next
a symphony of music-
& all emanating from those two
silvery concave shells.

This cluttered life
of excessive dodgy payments
to collapsing bank executives
& the hard sell of gambling away
Scrooge saved pensions
momentarily transcended.

There is an indefinable uplifting of being
A simple penetration of what it is all about.

The next morning
I pack my gear
she’s showering
her face
& breasts

‘Where you headed?’, she asks.

‘Don’t know really. Somewhere down the road’.


reckons people who watch
the Olympics are insecure.
He reckons you shouldn’t
squeeze teabags because you
shouldn’t have to force it.
He says he can sell me a highly
useful sex tip for fifty bucks
he learnt last week in the Vaudeville Tent
at the High Sierra Music Festival.

‘Does it involve a hand?’ I ask
simulating it is a hand job of an idea.

Tonight Animal is on the internet
in the next room composing a letter
to his girlfriend in New Zealand. He
is attempting to explain to her why
he shagged a fifty-five year old.

He says to me that he was feeling
horny & thought it would be
interesting to try it with an
older woman. He says it is
ok to have sex with other women
as long as he doesn’t hide it from
his girlfriend. He says she will get
hot thinking about his infidelities.

Animal is ’til to 2 in the morning
pouring it all out onto the electronic pulse
of the page. How the 55 year old meant
nothing to him. How he will make it up
to her. How he may even forego a men’s
group in Auckland to see her sooner.

Animal clicks the send button &
the server crashes. His great message lost.

The following morning in the lounge
he wears gum boots & a black & white jumper
he says he has started jogging
he says, besides sex, it is the only hobby he has
he says it brings the animal out of him.

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