[Writingworkshop] The Kwiry

[Neale Morison]

Now you mention it, it was a bit like that. My daughter Elizabeth just 
did a science project on the cell. She used a plastic food storage 
container as the outer membrane, and filled it with clear hair gel for 
protoplasm, in which she suspended the mitochondria and nucleus and this 
and that. It was a very spooky little cell, the way it wobbled. But 
after all that food I was starting to wobble a little myself.



Here are some pictures of the dust storm:
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/09/dust_storm_in_australia.html



Adam Holland wrote:
> 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 
> <mailto: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 <mailto:neale at nealemorison.com>
>     http://www.nealemorison.com
>     35 Frazer St, Leichhardt NSW 2040
>     +61 417 661 427
>
>
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-- 
Neale Morison
neale at nealemorison.com
http://www.nealemorison.com
35 Frazer St, Leichhardt NSW 2040
+61 417 661 427

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