two poems, by george anderson

the body bag

She’s an old friend
going back four decades.

I run into her about once
or twice a year.

She’s a lot like me
upfront, direct, demanding.

We both hate pretense,
crawlers, fuckwits.

She reckons her new boyfriend
is fit, ‘You should see him, Gidge,
he’s got a six-pack. He works hard.
Pity about his face.’

I chuckle & quip, ‘Do you resolve
the issue in your usual way?’,
alluding to her paper bag technique.

She nods smugly & says crowingly,
‘When we make love I imagine
I am doing with a man far younger
than myself.’

I hesitate for a moment
& think about how much
she now resembles her mother.

I can’t help myself.
‘What about the bloke,
does he ask you to wear
a body bag?’


the girl on the hill

We sit as a mob on the Hill
standing room only
day/nighter
a crucial match
Australia v West Indies.

We scoff meat pies
bolt down full-strength beer
& stand up & scream in unison
every boundary smashed.

A girl in a tank top passes
her arms outstretched
balancing three beers
in plastic cups.

There is a flurry of whistles
her breasts are HUGE
and bounce with each step-
she smiles at us without looking up
she probably reckons she is hot.

During the long hot afternoon session
the girl jiggles by several more times
& each go she is greeted with cat calls
of increasing intensity
of increasing madness.

Viv Richards hammers another delivery
for a six over the side screen

yet for the most part
I am not really following the game now.

I am more interested in watching the crowd
as it descends into
a shrill, ape-like stupidity.

About six hours into the match
the girl jiggles by us again-
this time she turns & smiles
waving innocently at us.

I do not really know who started it
but a paper cup is tossed in her vicinity
then another
then- a full can of beer.

THEN IT IS FULL ON-

people around me
astonishingly
scramble to grab
anything in their vicinity
at their feet-
cans
bottles
half eaten fruit
burgers
garbage bags

and then toss them in a wild hysteria at the chick.

She is startled and begins to cry.

As she trots to the nearest exit
the bloke beside me
vomits into a plastic beer cup
(no shit) & chucks it sidearm
with all his might-

over three rows of spectators
into her general direction.

I can’t recall who eventually won
the match.

I mean, who really wants to sit on the hill
to watch the cricket

when there is so much other interesting shit
happening?


George Anderson’s latest book of poetry The Rough End of the Pineapple is available here:

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