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----- Original Message ----- 
From: "andrew burke" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Tuesday, January 13, 2009 3:27 AM
Subject: draft for comment


I proffer this one up for discussionm - a second draft, so not even set in
wet cement yet.

*Coffee at Gloria Jean's*



'Keith the Butcher is better suited

to conduct my funeral than

Father Fahey,' Frank said in Gloria Jean's,

the shopping centre café, coffee tasting

of burnt tar, chocolate chip muffin

crumbling on his off-white face.

Mock-colonial windows framed smiling

consumers sitting down to relieve aching backs

and knotted varicose veins. 'None

of that God stuff as they send me off,

mate. Dead's dead, that's it.'

I fore went a second cup, threaded

my fingers through

plastic hoops of supermarket

bags, and stood to go. 'See ya, mate,'

I said. 'Not if I see you first,' Frank retorted

in place of wit. I waved

a loose finger and headed for the car park,

mentally ticking off the list as I went. Fingertips

reddened and white welts pulsed as I

propped the shopping against the back bumper,

clicked unlock on the key and threw open

the boot, thinking of the metaphors

of everyday, the cryptic lyricism of

an ancient tongue wriggling in the minds

of late capitalist man. 'Hot enough

for you?' said the woman from

next door with Magic Happens on her back window.

'Sure is,' I smiled, surfacing

from my reverie and dropping the boot.


-- 


Wordy.  Actions especially are padded and repetitive, without thematic 
payoff.  Reader is not interested in looking at the central figure having a 
blank pause or merely going from here to there.  Has to be tightened and 
sharpened.  Here's what I suggest:


'Keith the Butcher is better suited
to conduct my funeral than
Father Fahey,' Frank said in
the shopping centre café, coffee tasting
of burnt tar, muffin crumbling
on his off-white face.
Mock-colonial windows framed
consumers relieving aching backs
and knotted veins. 'None of that God stuff
when they send me off,
mate. Dead's dead.'  I forewent
a second cup, mentally ticked
off my list threaded fingers through
the plastic hoops of bags, and stood to go.
'See ya, mate.'  'Not if I see you first,'
Frank retorted.  In the car park,
fingertips reddened, I propped
the shopping against the back bumper,
clicked open the boot, considering
the metaphors of everyday,
the cryptic lyrics of an ancient tongue
wriggling in the minds of
late capitalist man. 'Hot enough for you?'
said the woman from next door
with Magic Happens on her windshield.