Nicole Page-Smith, 2013
Hotel Pacific
Firewalkers' flame flicker
in the gourds of tourist skulls;
leaf shadows make pillows a chart.
Garlands wear out their welcome;
mosquitoes whine like Cupid's bad dart.
Dengue fever travels by Fed-Ex jet,
but cargo cult diplomats still flee
the Hotel Pacific slowly.
Lizards cough beneath the floors;
guitars twang from wire-screen doors.
Pink cloud skims the horizon,
beer froth tips on glassy lager.
Viewed from the hotel verandah,
the ocean does crash-dive manoeuvres;
blow-flies crawl the grubby louvres.
Chewed cubs of banknotes are flung
where harems of ships' sirens once sung.
Private agents of secret powers
suspend dreams of freedom
for children who gather hibiscus flowers.
Shark-callers feed the fiery furnace
with a chopped-down forest of Jonahs,
and the helix of the tribe twists
between the crests of firewalkers,
until rain starts to fall with a hiss.
Hotel Pacific, washed up in a shopping mall,
trawls into the neon glare of it all.
On the beach a military band
is searching carefully for the lost chord,
as laughter of raindrops snorkels into sand.
by
David Eggleton
