Land of the Lottery Winners

In the street of the newcomers bitumen
is dark with oars. You can hear the beating,
unbearable brightness.  Solace of kitchens -
a dripping somewhere revenging contraption.
Mastering bedroom - a frenzy, for fears.

There's no work in this play of acres, nothing but the flesh
won't have. This is the finished world.  These are the winners.

Edges are trimmed and the bindy-eyes harvest, mouth of a ghost
lies under that tap new washers won't fix.   It's all new though.
Kerbs are in order, gutters all flow down there where the urchins
and each of us makes fair a beginning, begetting if the prime
should come before the knowledge.  Hearth dark
of forbidding is pressure, all thumbs.

In the suburb of lottery winners (hinterland golden
and green with its luck) losers have mortgaged their skins
to serve. They've left off ancestral much loathed resentment,
old days of curfew and eat more of this.
No one's from here. Nothing is made.   All kept to a rhythm.
We lend.  We're repaid.  Howmanyfold?  Howfarahead?
Consult us for an oracle.

Our lackeys are ox-strong, hunt in wire paddocks.
Everyone does what you or I would. You start out
dirt scraping, you don't change your name.

In the home of the lottery winners like this:
each has a magic pudding or pizza, a cake and eat it too I mean.
The bone breaks your way every time.  A kind of bottomless
dole with no questions.  Still there are whingers.  It's still not
enough.

As luck would have by the short and the curly
everyone knows what you want.  Anonymity's as good
as your gold. They won't object, it's what they're here for,
unless you wish them to of course. The brief is not to disappoint.

Nothing does.  No doubts shape the body.
There's labs where life keeps at the odds.  Miraculous skins
stretched agony thin but all their own.  Still there are those
cashed up hereafter.  You should see the big send-offs
on Pyramid Street.  All statues and thanks for the memories,
cramming last calories in if they can.

As the young in their prodigious strength and talent for abuse,
lift without labour, draw strength out of torments, so of a certain
shape and years a man comes to his lottery.
In this there are no causes, flags.  A volume of air
we purchase our children, theirs.  They will repay.
What can we bring them?   The holograph tree?
We can watch the sky buries. Over the entering gate
the sign says:We the world's best.We fortunate few.

Self made Immortals!  Ours the last country!
Hard by the rainbow - yes!   There is heaven
for lottery winners.

Believers we'll bus you.  Drought or some vengeance?
I have the pictures.  There's only one language - winners'.
Statistics. Ours in the newsagent when we say
this one any good?  or another, the same.
I too have a ticket - luck swells my pocket
I check the paper, know a day soon
my name among all the proscribed.
No saying when the lottery claims you.
Life is charmed just to be by the tale.

Here's postie's whistle
and dog after bike.
It's bob-a-job day
in the land of the sinners.
Egg in lard and bacon slabs,
bread as white, as bright
as hope, our highway
- all God given tomorrow
and here at the table
His beard is all eggy.
But you can't tell God, can you?
Besides He's got something there
for later.

There's something rubs off.
There - that's a good privilege.
There's retribution
- that's gets them in.
Best thing
in the land of the winners,
God's whiskers caught in the light.
It warms the crutch to serve
and we're unending
in congratulations.