Coral Hull: Poetry: How Do Detectives Make Love?: Diesel

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: HOW DO DETECTIVES MAKE LOVE?
DIESEL

on the road from carins to normanton we picked
up a dog/ a couple of travellers told us to go back
down to charters towers/ & to take the one-lane
highway across to mount isa/ there had been rain/
but we chose to risk the section of unsealed road
along the bottom end of the cape york penninsula/
to view the queensland peppermint & river red gum
landscape/ & its constant expansion into kilometres
of giant plateaus & underground lava tunnels from
extinct volcanoes/ we chose to widen our knowledge
of roadside brolgas & dumped dogs like hitchhikers
waiting for a lift/ after light rain the normanton
road had expanded out into side lanes/ into large
bottomless pits deep & soft with mud/ new bitumen
strips stood high & dry in the middle/ with access
to them blocked by roadwork signs/ a couple of
tourists from holland took the detours & ended up
bogged up to the windows/ their white arms waving
from cars with mud pouring in/
                                              on another lonely
stretch a man was trying to gas himself inside his
old bomb car with his german shepherd/ the dog's
horrible barking brought us to a halt/ i got out
to see what was the matter/ & his car door flew
open & he took off into the bush with his german
shepherd following him/ the dog's hysteria being
released like exhaust fumes into the stunted
growth/ on a very muddy section on which the e.h.
holden was skating/ we came across a muscular
black dog sitting on the side of the road/ it watched
us pass noticing our dogs in the back/ we slowed
down without stopping & i pushed my door open with
my foot/ i called out: come on come on/ & the big
black dog slid through mud/ it jumped onto my
lap/ its wagging tail slapping my chest & face/ the
bright orange clay flicking up onto the vinyl
ceiling & interior light/
                                 adrian said: perhaps we
should go onto some properties & try to look for
the owner/ i said: no/ as harshly as if i had slammed
my foot onto the brakes/ there were hundreds of
properties out there hidden in the scrub/ amongst
drowned coolibah trees & sharp topaz jutting out/
i suggested we stick to the road & drive straight
to croydon/ when we got into town we filled the
tank with petrol/ then i went to the local shire
building & the town clerk tied the dog up to the
flagpole/ then a carload of locals drove past/ two
wheels of the mud splashed ute jumping up over the
gutter/ ripping into the sprinkler greened lawn/
the full round spotlight dangling crazily from the
roof & the wire caged section on the back mingling
with lunatic dogs/ in the front were thin-lipped
australians with deep squinting eyes, checked shirts
& dusty hats/ the chain rattled on the flagpole as
the dog began to gyrate/ diesel, one cried out/

so that the dog stood to attention & became darker/
then he hopped out of the ute & came up & shook my
hand/ the others observing me through the window
glass/ i could tell he would be the type to keep
his distance under normal circumstances/ but he
offered me reward money/ i didn't want any/ i saw
diesel washed clean by a brief shower & enthusiastic
stroking from her owner/ then her black shining
loaded into the back with the other dogs/ he said
that she had been missing for two days/ & that they
were heading back out into the scrub/ these men are
pig killers, i thought/ & compared my dogs' lives
to theirs/ i was pleased to have found their thick-
jawed dog/ but i thought of the dead black pigs
torn at the throat/ out there behind the bloodwood
& paperbarks in the queensland scrub/ tusks turned
upwards drinking in rain/ dried blood & the long
lashed eyes half-buried in mud

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

I Home I Biography I Testimony I Articles I Poetry I Prose I Artwork I Photography I Notebook I