those painless
virus people
trapped
in the spam folder
could break a mirror
to fall into
after
a bottle of wine,
it’s then the spondee
doesn’t matter
happy birthday
you’re seven(ty),
as fractious as ever,
alkali and acid
I’ll eat my mistakes
and promise to read
the printouts
you never phone me
you said
you’re no longer
going to the movies
because they mimic
our ordinariness,
our limitedness,
they just iterate
a fucking annoying
rhetoric of sincerity,
but I’d like to see
‘The Master’
and
Duncan Jones’
science fiction films
could be some kind
of amelioration
though
you have your theories
the clandestine project’s
secrecy
is
worth examining
I wanted to tell you
your photos
of passing encounters,
you standing beside
famous
English-language poets
and famous poets’ graves,
don’t make you
any more of a poet,
but then I didn’t care
with those vaccination scars
you pretend
you’ve travelled
when you wake up
under vines, vanilla pods,
vetiver grass,
weed-carpeted craters,
the sun going down
running home
to soda water,
pig hocks, mangoes,
a telethon
and a band of what
at the front
of your head
one side dry
one side wet
island topography,
tying down tarps
before the tornado.
If Box struck by lightning—
not working—
plug in Black Cable
straight to TV
technician’s note
sticky-taped
to the magazine rack
horoscope
you’re a dynamic presence
but a casual player
and that’s exactly
how it should be
through a tinted windscreen
the past piles up
and
arrives again
piles up again
the true picture
of the past
flits by
on the periphery
it’s strange,
you’re wearing
your best blouse
for the memorial
time fills up
you’re looking
academic,
looking bourgeois,
little blobs of red dirt
on the axminster
(british)
it’s strange,
sash windows
are
anecdotal
(british)
the fence is a thesis
who is
the comprador here?
in ‘Ham House’ !
no thankYOU -
stomping off
in a huff,
bits of umbrage
strewn
down the hallway
(british)
tantrum fragments
pool
like letters & numbers
in your dna
at the reception
individual fractions
of wasabi
pink out
consciousness
it’s strange,
sharply focused photos
no one cares to look at
a grey area,
what you’re doing
here
and what you think
you’re doing
here
camera camera
a lens
in each pore
in every cranny
everyone’s
laughing now,
the eulogist’s on a roll,
holy roller
I really want
to write my name,
P.Brown,
in pencil
inside your book
fifteen years ago
a fishing boat
half-sunk
in Blackwattle Bay,
everything still,
the best poet
had dropped dead
instant classic
mineral consciousness
protects the mendicant
applying for a grant
for tonal poems
hairdresser electronica
makes you feel
like
DOING something
three men in a cherry picker
thirty metres up
dropping
orange basketballs
to the ground,
a high bounce test
that makes
invention trivial
I want to do this -
please verify
you are human
by following
the directions
in the graphic,
but I can’t
what happened
happened
turning easterly
in the evening
the situation shifts
between Point Danger
and Gabo Island,
two unknown places
nowhere better
or worse
to calculate
a beautiful dullness,
and lucky enough
to be right in the path
of the radar