women and I –
!!!
all the hollow gorilla’s-
-chest beats I contrive to write of
so prophetic and full-
-souled but fail so singly to
textualise that odd pairing
or maul the whole body
of significance with cowardly
epigraphs and tangents
about gorillas!
even now I’m turning the pol-
-yester tag of a pair of trousers
over in the hand without a pen
in it – I love the tag to distraction
because I don’t want to see the real
picture
drawn except surreally, behind curtains
with crazy patterns and faultless
fire-retardance – because women
repeal all the laws I’ve imposed,
drive me to mental banditry –
women are pointillists and em dashes
keyed across the rare earth elements
of my cold plot of composure –
the contorted seams of the cheap
pillow case their heads rest on
and perfume for weeks and months
seem to show what it looks like inside
when I try to describe what I feel for them
–
now the trouser tag is a couple of balls
fallen down an unreachable crevice
behind my bed, I think that my ailment
stems from the soil of their being
better than me, and that, to tell the
truth,
I’m yet to really know any.
...
then slowly
I walk a little
slower past the delta
crane boring
ward by ward
through the old
Royal
Children’s – sunset
bleeding out
over halved
helipads and barbed
wrecking hooks
walls fleeced
open like skin and
tin fences
fringed like
Bible tassels –
glassless windows
holding
latent night all day
until the holes
are so agape
they’re no longer
holes – dogs
burying bits
of debris with the
greed of a junk
artist
exhuming them– the U.S
army built this
and also the
Royal Melbourne –
now I can think
of nothing
more lullingly still –
after the cranes
fall silent
and it’s only a jagged
silhouette
against the glow
of tireless
Flemington
road
traffic, and the walkers and
joggers of twi-
-light have
retired to shower
I slowly seek out
a little
window of dry grass and
watch until I too
am
crumbling, and black, and quiet.
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