[Writingworkshop] The Kwiry

[Adam Holland]

Love it.

I can see it in a graphic novel now, all writhing protoplasm, with heads
emerging and being resorbed constantly, consuming everything, and when
there's nothing left, consuming people, to add to its soul-withering
ensemble.


--
The anticipation of outcome guarantees, if not failure, the absence of
grace.


On Thu, Oct 1, 2009 at 5:25 AM, Neale Morison <neale at nealemorison.com>wrote:

> I came back on Sunday from a choir tour to what I suppose you could call
> the outback. On the day that we left there was an extraordinary dust storm
> that turned the sky dark red. We visited a few towns in the Western Plains,
> Coonabarabran (pop 2069), Baradine (pop. 593) and Coonamble (pop. 4790),
> where the Moorambilla Music Festival took place. The pivotal piece in our
> main concert, performed with 50 or so choristers, 160 local children, a
> string quartet, soprano sax, keyboard, and four piece taiko drum ensemble,
> was The Yowie Suite. A Yowie is a dreamtime monster, of whom most locals can
> usually tell a story of personal confrontation. It's a smelly, black beast
> that chases victims around in the scrub at night.
>
> The Kwiry
>
> Moorambilla 2009
>
> They're out here...
> The ancient ones...
> Kw-i-iry...
> Kwi-ry......
>
> A writhing, giant centipede,
> A hundred legs, and arms galore,
> And fifty gaping mouths, what's more,
> That always seem to need a feed.
>
> It dashes through the scrub at night,
> Or through the blazing light of day,
> At something like a hundred K,
> Or faster when the schedule's tight.
>
> And when it sees a country town,
> Its mouths curve in a ghastly grin,
> Ignoring signs, it charges in,
> And from its shell it slithers down.
>
> Backing singers, in tones of mounting terror:
> Run, run, run, run, run ...
>
> The smell? A fierce array of stinks,
> Old wine, and Scotch, and strong perfumes,
> Deodorant, small, crowded rooms,
> And T-shirts briefly rinsed in sinks.
>
> The sound? A shriek of dark despair,
> And yowls and groans and oohs and aahs,
> And strangled moans and doos and dahs,
> And diphthongs stretched beyond repair.
>
> More scones! it screams. The locals quake,
> Their blood runs cold to hear the sound,
> They slaughter livestock all around,
> And slice and dice and ice and bake.
>
> They offer up the sacrifice,
> On groaning altars filled with food,
> To somehow calm the Kwiry's mood;
> It must be fed at any price.
>
> There's fifty fifty steak and steak,
> There's coleslaw, rice, cream, scones and jam,
> There's curried chicken, minted lamb,
> And tea and sixty kinds of cake.
>
> It leaps, devouring every dish,
> There's nothing that it will not eat,
> Except at times it balks at meat,
> Then townsfolk need to trap some fish.
>
> For days the town rings to its howl,
> Until at last there's nothing left,
> The Kwiry leaves the town bereft,
> Of beef and mutton, fish and fowl.
>
> And then it crawls into its shell,
> And hurtles off in frenzied haste,
> A barren, devastated waste
> Behind it, all that's left to tell.
>
> So when you see a blood-red sky,
> And eerie wailing fills the air,
> You know the Kwiry's left its lair;
> Bend down, and kiss your ass goodbye.
>
> (Run, run, run, run run .... ... RUN!)
>
> --
> Neale Morison
> neale at nealemorison.com
> http://www.nealemorison.com
> 35 Frazer St, Leichhardt NSW 2040
> +61 417 661 427
>
>
> _______________________________________________
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> Writingworkshop at nealemorison.org
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>
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