On First Looking into Chapman's fritz

its contents are a mystery still 
   but you don't care when 
slices on fresh crusty bread     Rosella-spread
   make a sandwich that's  the 	stuff of dreams

you know that Bung means broken but 
   these fat orange curves are pure perfection 
phallic cleanskin clusters 
   well-hung from a shiny S

pad in on bloodsoaked sawdust 
   steeped in meaty aromas 
there are whole carcasses 
   in that Big Room 

big metal door yawns 
   cold air rushing over laminex counter
faceward 	eyes level with art deco 
   smallgoods sign as you 
stand on the parcel rail 

animals 	now  hollow 
   hang as dresses on racks
but you're not scared 
   only the bandsaw screams 

when you are 4 
   butchers are benign fat shiny-faced 
ebullient men 
   who like kids 

every cut preceded with flourish 
   of steel, slinky sound of blade on sharpener 
thrusted clattering 
   back to scabbard hung on blue & white apron


it's all theatre and vaudeville  	under ultraviolet spotlights
   projecting oneliners to back rows 
even eyeless pigs' heads smile 
   from refrigerated windows 


the clever cleaver says chump! to chops and 
   block! when it hits maple. 
plastic parsley and shiny stainless 
   gutters to runnel blood 

you stand silently 
   all eyes and ears and nose 
cataloguing each sensation not for a poem
   you will write four decades later,

 but because good boys 
will get a piece of fritz   

---

from Friendly Street's Anthology "Another Universe" (Ed. Kate Deller-Evans & Steve Evans, AUS, 2004)

 

 

 

 

 

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