in amongst the spectres
There is a tiled promenade built on piers in front of the building and it runs all the way down to the ferry docks. Half-naked runners muscle their sweaty path through the distance in the midday heat, there and back, Americans and English. They are not paid any regard, their heathenism is just flesh, and how the flesh rots here. A minute after they pass another struggles by, his skin a cream envelope of gathered fat. He blossoms red on his face and neck, his thinly haired skull.
The harbour is narrow, and on the other side, placed with infinite care, are a thousand sculptures built of flawless crystal and silver. One is made of gold. They are mammoth and tower above the remains of what they have replaced, an exquisite jewellery set by an artisan creed who would defy creation.
It is term I have learnt. Back in the day when there was a just a rail line, if you seriously mentally deficient, you talk the rail journey to Goodna. The old tumble down, fenced (with holes), is spooky in the daytime. The most famous of it habitant ants was an Aboriginal, a cricketer, a spinner. That’s all I know about it. We here in Goodna, are sandwiched between the crazy and the dead. Either of them choose to hassle us.