Speedfactory

Terri-ann White

Measure me, I'm the one with the brain.
This one hasn't been returned not yet not ever I hope once upon a start an america a million years once upon a good idea once I got in and found it
Outbox for my vibratory movement is doing the deed making me moist growing me up
In different handwriting in winking at me
winking at me
I work in a speed factory
feathery
flutters fast as the brain allows, yes that same brain it has always been there. You were the one missing don't forget it.
Showing and not telling
When Kirsty walked out she had no idea how ill it was. It was then that Tim's idea got stuck in Liberace's fly and the whole thing flew out of the sky and into the realm of mythological encounter.
The rigour of discourse.
You don't look like a Lola warmer than that like an
orange light solvent and insolvent becoming touch in the company of books.

Kirsty's Dad had the deal and then it was taken from him. It was the dealership for the latest Australian car, the magnificent, to-be-proud-of Leyland P76. Home grown for authentic and modestly Australian pride. Lasted a couple of years and then they, most of them, fell apart.
The man around the corner cherishes his, drives it every day, gets nationalistic if he has to about the marvellous design and manufacturing capabilities of little Aussie battlers-the workers. Up the workers!

The car gives me a good laugh every time I see one on the street. Rare as. Lola, who didn't ever recover from the song named after her. Didn't get to taste Cherry Cola until it was too late and it wouldn't matter what it tasted like by then. Thanking her parents profusely she remembered the Republic debate, remembered Mother and once upon a time Father, remembered obligations and the nine hundred dollars a page paid to the nation's leading poet in some eyes leading in others loaded.

Boy, what a schmozzle that was! Who was it said "We'll root them on the beaches"? Not John Howard. I move to and fro and yet. I remember very little of the last stretch. Of the past seventeen days. Of that decade they call lost but I called a waste of bloody time.

Once upon a time stopped the people stopped walking. Of tinea the people suffered and then of lice. But all of it was in their heads. Mr Fixit open your eyes. Help me somebody. Is there anybody home yet, please?

And we all came to look for america. What did we find? What was left, that was all. Not much. Less than nothing or, as they say, less than zero baby. In different handwriting the message spelled out loud and proud, a past perfection, a sad little declaration of words with loops.

Once upon a time.

I work in a speed factory. I'll do you a deal. See if I don't treat you well.