Marrickville is a WhoreThe Inner West suburb of Marrickville is like an aged prostitute showing her age, though looking past the lines and calluses, it is possible to see that she was once a beauty. But after being violated so many times, by so many men, she is close to destitute. Nevertheless, the old whore was the setting for the family lunch, not exactly celebrating, but marking the end of Lent. In the garden of a townhouse running off Marrickville Road, all the Morpheiou’s this side of Sappho stared at the foods that, out of tradition, they had willingly deprived themselves of for the forty days and forty nights past. The various leaves of a branch of thatMarrickville is a Whore
I am a WalrusI am a walrus; a friendly, tusked seabeast. My brother is a spaceship. He is leaving. He is in his special clothes; the ones that are worn for things such as birthdays, fancy dinners, Christmases and the like. My arms soar through the air in a moment of imagination; I close my eyes and forget myself. Now I am an aeroplane. In the house, by the front door, his black fabric suitcase waits at the door, it waits for him.I am a Walrus
‘Through the darkness of space, I see the red earth of Mars,’ he tells me.
I look through the kitchen window. Mum and Dad are sharing a final coffee and cigarette before the taxi turns up and Alex and Dad
Morpheus 3.2By lamplight, in his office that doubles as a reading room, Nikita sat at the desk waiting to get inspired. The page in his notebook was painfully blank, the ballpoint pen remained unused. The very blankness of the fresh sheet of lined paper was imposing; the empty white of nothingness dared him to create something, anything, out of the void. Releasing a breath of troubled air, he sighed, putting down the pen and lighting a cigarette. The ennobling God of Creation that heightened the senses, turned the low into the high, turned the base and the mundane into a form worthy of reverence was strangely found to be elsewhere. The God ofMorpheus 3.2
morpheus chapter 2.1The German vehicle sped on, unstoppable, unheeding of any external force, ruthlessly hunting for that elusive parking space on King Street. The Volkswagen Golf tore through the busy artery, as would the Blitzkrieg, taking no prisoners. And lo! A space. The car zipped into the spot in an instant, stopping with heavy brakes, surrounded by the smell of burnt rubber dispersed in the mad dash. Happy with himself, he got out of the car.morpheus chapter 2.1
He was in King Street. Newtown’s lifeblood, the artistic hub of the country, some say, the bordering suburb of Marrickville. It is seventeen days to the day since his fortieth birthday, being a Sunday. I
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