A journal of narrative writing.
New Mardi Gras, Sydney

Let's stand on ten-dollar milk crates tonight, peer over cheap tiaras, pressed in tight among construction workers arm in arm with glamour boys in leather. Glitter warms the cheeks of all the maskless passers-by. It's mimicked in the lights that flash awry and glance on every face and surface, as you do now, pitching forward, camera clasped, then back on heels, to frame the netted calves and ass the dancer in front displays. Half the crowd has claimed the balconies above, some dangling beads and streamers, calling love, or, like that couple each with wings who turn away from the parade, play pilgrim, learn with each soft palm still softer things to kiss. These beauties, all, in clamor, drag, insist erratic beats and red stilettos wreak oh so much more than havoc on these streets. Just watch those boys, one draped carefully on the naked shoulder of his friend. Beyond their wobbled tender state, intensity belied by budgie smugglers. Worth thirty years for this: softly brushing cheek to chin, despite all eyes, a gesture freely given.