|May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three|
At the carousel collection bay at Melbourne Airport
I collect my tattered candy-cane stripped bag:
hauling it onto a trolley–
a huge border collie leaps on me unleashed by a cop.
Puzzled, I say, 'He must smell the scent of me dog'
I don’t think so, the bloke insists, come this way!
I am shown into a sparse, clinical room
& instructed to undress,
a customs official snapping on a pair of rubber gloves.
Standing there in my jocks I timidly ask,
'What’s this about anyway, mate?'
Bend over, he says
& then I feel this long thick finger circulating, pivoting up my ass.
I scream at them:
'My mother, she’s 68 years old– she’s waiting for me outside, She’ll be
* * *
A customs officer brings my Adidas sports bag into the room
it appears empty
he unzips it (pointing)–
deposited at the bottom of the bag are a couple
of shriveled green chunks
the size of cockroach shit.
I ask, 'What’s the problem?'
They show me the cannabis.
'I don’t know nothing about it mate'.
I later discover that a friend of my son had recently borrowed me bag on a
trip to Tasmania
* * *
After eight hours the cunts finally release me without charge–
my ass still itching
from the raw
|RETURN to May 2005|