(The street. NARRATOR enters. ANGEL enters, with PROSTITUTES — like a bodyguard.)
NARRATOR:  Good to see you back again.

ANGEL:  Oh yeah, a spell in the lock-up,
     a cavity search, and I'm a new woman.

NARRATOR:  Cavity search. Open season on any woman.
     She said love your cunt not lumber
     it around like hunger. Nobody else
     will, remember, forgotten how. Poor
     Miranda, no other treasure. Eye for a
     bargain, eye for an eye. You can let them
     in there, they won't find a thing. She said
     seize back the means, they try to
     privatise but you can put it out there. What
     does it have in common with a 747. What
     needst thou have more covering and
so on. She said Lady,

     love your cunt,

NARRATOR:  but Fred Nile is in touch with the beating
     heart of Australia and police
     can authorise a nurse or a doctor I assure
     you it has no nerve endings and on the
     screen, worn as the battered aperture
     of an old camera the dusk and "soft musk of her hollows"
     the doctor is awed before. Imaging such
     dilation. Stainless, like steel.

ANGEL:  They went close to something.
     I can feel it. You don't need
     nerve endings. I vomited
     in the morning.

NARRATOR:  Behold the handmaid of the world.

ANGEL:   Be it done to me according to the word.

NARRATOR:  So how long are you going
     to work this street. Surely
     it's time to move on?
     There are riper pickings
     on the other side of town,
     or maybe around Fremantle.

ANGEL:  This street is ordered confusion.
     The high-rise flats mean the yuppies
     won't win out entirely — see,
     don't stereotype me.

(During following TWO PROSTITUTES cross stage and 'slash' ANGEL with  lipstick and exit. TWO OTHER PROSTITUTES cross stage and slap/smudge ANGEL'S face, and exit.)
     I don't wallow in the filth
     or float ethereally;
     no Manichaean take
     on council rates.
     I've worn wigs
     and sat in on meetings.
     So excited to have a new face
     they didn't even recognise
     their nemesis. And I got
     that idea from Star Trek.

NARRATOR:  Boldly going where no man has gone before!
     Do you know what I do with their leaflets?
     I wipe my arse with them.
     It's called recycling.
     Don't you worry, they won't stop
     at anything. They only tolerate me because
     I pay rates: prime location
     in the middle of town. But don't put it past them,
     they're into purgation.

ANGEL:  If I let them contain me
     and my cavities, they'd
     fill me anally and love it.
     I'm good for profit,
     and the mining industry
     likes that. It's just more gold
     to give away.

(JACK enters. NARRATOR withdraws and watches from a distance.)
ANGEL:  Jack, you're my man.

JACK:  I'm nobody's man.

ANGEL:  You're a man's man.
     A blokey bloke.

JACK:  What are you implying?

ANGEL:  That you like your body.
     I know you work out.

JACK:  What's it to you?

ANGEL:  Words don't work for this.
     We provide for each other.

(ANGEL and JACK take up parodic tango drop position. ANGEL starts caressing JACK but this turns into a search inside his coat.)
JACK:  I am a creative person.
     I am your agent. A spiritual
     mentor, a physical protector.

ANGEL:  A provider. You are
     my programme.
     We counsel
     each other.

JACK:  But I don't need you, Angel.

(JACK drops ANGEL and moves away. NARRATOR crosses to help ANGEL.)
     I'll do okay when our
     partnership breaks up.
     In fact, I'm thinking
     of registering
     for the small business
     incentive scheme.
     I've got a plan.

NARRATOR: Jack, the man with the plan.

JACK: Butt out of it.

(JACK and ANGEL exit. STREETPEOPLE enter.)

STREETPEOPLE:  (Shared lines, with reference to MRS WALPURGIS and MR CLIPBOARD.)

     There's that bitch

     There's that shit

     There's the vigilante clutch

     The god-blessed creep who runs this street

     The god-sucked geek who whacks his meat

     Who blocks her snatch

     Who ties his cock

     Put cling wrap round their private parts

     Pull up the sheets and sniff their farts

     Put shit upon the queens and tarts

     Take notes on those upon the street

     Live lives unblessed by joy and grief

     (Rhythm change)

     Live their lives in a ditch

     Upstanding cits

     Upstanding what?

     Upstanding shits

     Upstanding what?


ALL:  So high

     phallic monuments...

ALL:  So low

     to perverted...

ALL:  So down


ALL:  Go down

(STREETPEOPLE 'go down' into a tangled and writhing heap on the stage and remain there as lights change into next scene.)

Smith Street | Mudlark No. 19
Contents | Act 2, Scene Two