Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Three Nov-Dec 2026.
Better than Disneyland, poems by Jonathan Cant.
Better than Disneyland
There I was, aged 11…
In a Mexican mercado, with the smell of leather,
corn taquitos frying, and something less pleasant.
There, death inhabited life’s wide smile.
Spending was like a board game. Each peso twenty to the dollar—
a kid could be rich there! Even I could afford a handwoven rug in red
and black and white with an eagle biting a rattlesnake while perched
on a prickly pear—Heavens, the Underworld, and Earth.
There, life smiled out from inside every fresh death.
I never knew that sterling silver bore a hallmark—a 9-2-5 worked
into the metal. I learned that genuine cowhide is branded, too, with a little
police badge of authenticity. I also learned that people who have nothing,
feel everything. Poverty was friendly. Mexico was a party that needed
no tequila (…not yet. In 1977, how could my innocent young mind have
conceived of blue agave mezcal, let alone magical peyote cactus, visions!)
Mexico is synesthesia. A feast of visible flavours.
And a Mother Culture of the World.
There, was a cradle rocking to an endless beat.
The cacophony of sounds. Shouting and touting in Spanish. The off-key
mariachi laments—trumpets like traffic jams. Flamenco guitars fanning
the flames of passion. Duende! Music both mournful and joyous.
Wafting on the thick summer air through bustling streets.
And I’d never seen such brightly coloured fruit—an edible colour chart.
I gorged on watermelon, papaya, and cantaloupe. The men and women
dressed just as colourfully.
There I was in a plain white T-shirt and brown bell-bottomed slacks,
Dad in his pale blue safari suit.
On the beachfront, parasailers dangled perilously close to high-rise
hotels; as speedboat drivers—stoned and distracted—wove
and circled Acapulco Bay. To the north, brave locals dove
off 80-foot cliffs into the ocean and survived.
There, was a carnival of chaos way better than Disneyland.
Outside Mexico City, at Teotihuacan, the Pyramids of the Sun
and the Moon stood like two dark towers of death and power.
How coarse the feel of that volcanic rock in my youthful hands
as I climbed skyward. And how the Pyramid of the Moon mimicked
Cerro Gordo, the sacred mountain, behind it—as above, so below.
I learned why they were built steep: so the bodies of the sacrificed
could tumble all the way down to the ground to the fright and delight
of waiting crowds. Aztec bread and circuses! Tortillas and Toltec theatre.
There, a half a century later, I’m still that curious boy standing at the top
of those stone stairs thinking it would be a hell of a long way to fall.
Crazy About Booze
an ekphrasis after Ken Kesey
Here we are now. Our little group of inpatients in the addiction ward. It’s movie night. Tonight’s feature film: Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. (Spoiler Alert)
Jack Nicholson plays the protagonist—the cocky, charismatic Randle Patrick McMurphy, RPM: Revs Per Minute. “Mac”, as they call him, is always revved up, ready for the action.
Fast forward to the Christmas Party scene. Mac smuggles in two women and some alcohol. Now everybody’s getting loose as Mac shows the mental patients how good it feels to just let go—to go with the flow.
Someone in the audience says she finds this too triggering and excuses herself from the room.
Meanwhile, Mac bribes the nightguard and, with keys in hand, has a plan to escape the cuckoo’s nest with his Native American friend “Chief” Bromden. But, in a fateful and almost Christ-like act of altruism, Mac delays his getaway; and, instead, decides to do a favour for the shy and stuttering Billy by arranging for Candy to have sex with him.
The patient to my right pipes up and says, my meds have just kicked in, goodnight everybody.
Time ticks on and more drink is drunk. Mac, in a haze and dazed by booze, passes out, missing his literal window of opportunity. Morning comes and, with it, reality. Her name is Nurse Ratched. She surveys the carnage; and, with her small, cruel mouth, berates Billy for taking Candy. Billy, with his newfound manhood stands up to her. She counters with a threat to tell his mother everything. In shame and desperation, Billy cuts* his throat and bleeds out.
At this point, the patient to my left gasps and squirms uneasily. It’s a little too close to the bone.
Then McMurphy snaps and, in a fit of frustrated rage, grabs the wretched nurse by the throat and nearly chokes her to death. This final act of defiance sees him sent “upstairs”.
It’s now that I recall another recovering alcoholic, Tom Waits, who was known for the saying: I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.
Sadly, McMurphy gets both. One, then the other. Chief, who’d watched his father drink himself to death trying to numb the pressures of a mean society, chooses life. Inspired by Mac’s spirit—and with his spirit onboard—Chief breaks through that impossible wall of glass to reach the other side. The Outside. For a better life in Canada and freedom at last.
When the film credits roll, one of the cheekier inpatients turns off the TV and, with a facetious grin, says sleep well, guys. I pick up my water bottle—which used to secretly contain vodka. As the last of us to leave the common room, I turn out the lights. And, in this momentary darkness and silence I, too, imagine busting out and heading for the hills just as Chief had done.
*Help is available. Lifeline Australia 13 11 14
Frozen
He was young and sensitive; maybe a tad too polite. People used to tell him: “nice guys finish last, you know?” He knew.
She had blonde hair, glacier-blue eyes, fiery-red lips with an easily-ignited smile, and a confident laugh like someone without a care in the world.
One Sunday morning, on their way to a lunch date, she insisted they drop by a guy’s place because she’d left her handbag there the night before. Sliding back into the car excitedly, she boasted: “he’s a magic man!” “You mean, like a magician?”, he asked. “Oh no, I mean a magic man,” she assured him, chortling to herself over her little in-joke.
Driving along the highway, things went quiet. She’d nodded off—all curled up in the passenger seat. Somebody’d had a big night, he thought to himself. Glancing at her, he noticed her pale blue jeans. There were fresh, greasy, grass stains on both knees—almost like someone had coloured them in with a green highlighter pen.
She woke up just before they reached the restaurant. Lunch went smoothly enough. On the drive home, she complained about the seafood buffet he’d taken her to: asserting that she suspected the prawns had been frozen and thawed. How could he contradict her? After all, she worked in hospitality. She was a rostered manager for an express pizza store in a suburban shopping centre. Therefore she would know if food had been frozen.
*
Years later, their paths crossed once again. A sports car accident had left her date (on that particular night) dead at the wheel, and her no longer able to speak nor feed herself. Though, he still cared deeply.
Come dinnertime, he’d make himself a simple, cold salad followed by lemon sorbet for dessert. But, for her meal, he really went out of his way. She was fussy about how she liked the consistency of her risotto. So, he’d prepare it properly, standing by the stove, attentively toasting the arborio rice in extra virgin olive oil and butter; with fresh garlic, chopped shallots, and dry white wine. He’d then add each cup of chicken stock, gradually mixing it through so that the rice would soak up the liquid evenly.
When the desired creamy texture was just past al dente, it was in with a dash of cream, and the parmesan for that umami “magic”, plus a handful of highlighter-green peas—with some dill on top. He’d lovingly stir the pot. Just for her.
And when it came time to add the cooked prawns, he made sure they had once been as frozen as her cruel, little heart all those years ago.
Note: This piece is an ekphrasis after the 1992 Roman Polanski film Bitter Moon, featuring actors Peter Coyote and Emmanuelle Seigner. The film’s French title, Lunes de fiel, is a pun on the French phrase “lune de miel” meaning “honeymoon”. It’s based on the novel Lunes de fiel by French author Pascal Bruckner, published in English as Evil Angels.
© Jonathan Cant
Jonathan Cant is a writer, poet, educator, and musician. His work was shortlisted in the 2025 Gwen Harwood Poetry Prize; won the 2023 Banjo Paterson Writing Awards for Contemporary Poetry; and was longlisted in the 2023 Fish Poetry Prize. His poems have appeared in Cordite, Island, Verandah, and Bristol Noir. Jonathan’s debut poetry collection, Finding Pan, is available at 5islandspress.com