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Kenneth Slessor - Last Trams
Work rating: Low

I
 THAT street washed with violet 
 Writes like a tablet 
 Of living here; that pavement 
 Is the metal embodiment 
 Of living here; those terraces 
 Filled with dumb presences 
 Lobbed over mattresses, 
 Lusts and repentances, 
 Ardours and solaces, 
 Passions and hatreds 
 And love in brass bedsteads . . . 
 Lost now in emptiness 
 Deep now in darkness 
 Nothing but nakedness, 
 Rails like a ribbon 
 And sickness of carbon 
 Dying in distances. 
II
 THEN, from the skeletons of trams, 
 Gazing at lighted rooms, you`ll find 
 The black and Röntgen diagrams 
 Of window-plants across the blind 
 That print their knuckleduster sticks, 
 Their buds of gum, against the light 
 Like negatives of candlesticks 
 Whose wicks are lit by fluorite; 
 And shapes look out, or bodies pass, 
 Between the darkness and the flare, 
 Between the curtain and the glass, 
 Of men and women moving there. 
 So through the moment`s needle-eye, 
 Like phantoms in the window-chink, 
 Their faces brush you as they fly, 
 Fixed in the shutters of a blink; 
 But whose they are, intent on what, 
 Who knows? They rattle into void, 
 Stars of a film without a plot, 
 Snippings of idiot celluloid.
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