This bed is Eternal Chaos
-and wake in a stream of light
-Gary Snyder, 'The Manichaeans'
our laser show gloaming.
rain opening
her diary to its saddest pages
(Thai maiden moon, hollow cheeks frightened
and clear from noon uncleared by timely clouds –
clay in kids’ art classes, clumped unhandled
red before each gaped face
from the box, a machine-smoothed slab of universe –)
my licked toes squirm with alterity.
eyes blink space.
Aden is in
the banana-seed-sized entries.
dancers adjust their clothes to
the order of
not-dancers’ clothes.
arching so split ends grace his collarbone
a movement
off mouth
until I feel the dew and the unhooked pole.
his face in dying headlamp
light is a wave train through my middle.
joined like the two-headed serpent
we have gone
home a while
this mattress is air eggs, sunflower-seeded.
—we
stare til the batteries die.
stagehands pull cables
power down decks, clink glasses of champagne
up where the DJs were.
altar of
shiny offerings
handed back
to dumber holiness.
a moment as the crowd exhales to leave
chants break out, they are
drummed
behind on rubbish
and muddy thighs, the dead to rights smile of a star
already
dead.
a motorised sofa bed
bogs itself goading
mud and is out of beer.
our tent shivers –
in the drawn
eerie quiet
blow on my nape, blow with an open mouth
wetness from inside him pools there
I feel it –
together we make five seas for warmth
and rills of toxic sweat.
outback rain is lucky
even for those who have to pack up in it.
roads to the
city will bottleneck
but ease quickly. there may be accidents –
let them happen, little ones. if one dozes
the others are wider awake.
we are rafting on these waters
both bodies wept
double sleeping bag like the Mariana –
when we leave
I'll fall to dreaming, he will drive
and quote the Ramayana.
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