Trip To The Strip {circa seventy eight} – Jess Cook

Coughing up blood


Stud farmed

Hard pressed to remember what happened

But he had wondered near The Cross

Looking for something worth looking at.

The back streets of his suburb were too curved

And led nowhere…

These were alive with action

Packs of people roaming the streets stemming off Oxford

By late evening

Luke was drunk and awestruck

Stuck to the light bulbs

And glitter bods that paraded like pretty peacocks

He felt surrounded by feathers

Till the hunters gathered cockfight’ reference

Eye sockets punched in

Lip slips for stiches to seam.

An aggressive gamut of WE HATE FAGOTS

Had suffocated him

And caved in.

For some hours he lay there.

Unable to move

February’s chills set in

He was the just bombed

Sydney Hilton.