a DJ plays the Bondi surf

The 380 bus deposits me on the paved
ledge to the sand of Bondi Beach. A blast
of wind from the south, which is
not the warm direction. The sea is half
white, strips of white and they are
like rough pieces of white paper torn
into wedges, these whitenesses.
This is a scene for the new glasses. And
now come the surfers. Signs that I thought
said WEBSITE are WETSUIT. I set myself
on a white towel and read the TLS. I read
of writers who fall in love and remove
themselves to Greek Islands and have lots
of kids and die of tuberculosis. The
fast water turns the beach into
a curl of itself and there's a man
in a t-shirt crouched in the surf, he's
getting his picture taken by a woman
holding a camera over her head. She's
looking up to check the digital image. He's
clutching a vinyl LP in each hand like
a discus thrower, and he's wearing
grey headphones, grimacing. He is
playing the records on the lip of
each wave as they crash through him.
Beside them is a Chinese businessman
in a black suit, his pant legs rolled
up, his bare feet. He is delighted. A
hundred feet away is something small,
black and shining. A pair of leather
shoes.