1
we’re phantasmagoric & over fed square (post eco parking post
an ill-thought dumplings ploy & the odour of spilling soy)
even to interiors breasting a ship’s plushie aspect, mounting
layer upon player so as to ply a drink with waving departure
one small glass. the slops still a veritable ambrosia
toes rocking above head level
still, you sleep.
a big steam breakfast the instinct to knowingness,
else timelessness, it’s all appropriate. only one image lures
you past alternate fog (westerly):
a ponderous sea dragon growing without effort.
(mottled pink & supreme in having time-to-think)
it’s so unlike us all, so worthy of permanent capture,
meditative study.
with such fitful poise I’d grace
any maccas carpark.
2
another fist of views means, erratically, you’re au fait
with the ice danger – ‘views’ lack speed indicators,
all twists & turns simply set to parallel all things,
all the time. I think in bytes. you know, inspired, irate,
worried, inspired… we crest a township to find a cottage &
drag the strip. come on! observe this stodgy boat ramp &
kids ranting lysergic fishing lore. (oh, later: the ethics
of fish & chips vs. local ale) slabs of information
dot each pier even through our coverage blackspot.
electric-blanket-land stirs a temporary love affair,
& this adam sandler movie set amidst ‘coastlines’,
only half dismaying in its todayness, its watchability.
get into the straightest of passages: tercentennial ferry
to a site of industry / brunch over the car & re-pack the run
off.
rod slam & scooter blitz into the back of a good showering –
ample views of life, hills, unscrupulous poetry to an audience
fighting back dadaist southern life (hence the flagrant
repetition) shipping news vernacular like,
starboard over, & over, this
simply matters or doesn’t.
one comment is the renaissance (check out my website!)
but stake a base removal from the bar as effective, for kicks,
then beat the life out of a skate park. scour an Indian
restaurant for cricket memorabilia, or even candy coated
fennel seeds & the taste of your bed’s silly refusal of feet…
a noisome cat is far better than the ache, parsed as perpetual.
our chocolate coated lives: words exist for this process:
to ooze through when hot, our skins a foil, all presupposed
to hide a bitter patent of the colour purple (as it seems
in purple dreams). the blonde girl assures us / me / of her
addictions. no less confident with such things
impending. but cut from her
to botany / musical play equipment / the ways we name
living things / science / the arousal of suspicion…
I photograph Violet to isolate her as a growing thing,
txt it via pizza hut one mind on the powerful & loud
faux-teens. it’s a delight & absolute. a proud gourmet
variety of people kept in the cellar. there is always tv.
Hobart began with a block, two couples kissing,
frozen out the window by my glance. this place
of love, public beauty. suppose this.
3
memories of killing can only be stomached with food.
food again destroying your silly faith in Capitalism
(you plan to order the t-shirt) everything feeling
less systematic than it should. former towns are
pretty & uniformly un-guarded
suffice to say I’d play up the history of a place – as if
active agency were involved – but only if the mental gap
were appropriate. (like a 19th century pick axe to the skull
it’s barbaric but expected, though always worth putting your
hand up for, a tactile reworking of ‘stickiness’,
an intellectual act of baravado).
Bryant taking to tourists so recently though,
this blooms disquiet. the recent ghosts are marginalized.
predictable. a tour through the genuine reality of the
solitary wing & I wish the group away, I feel,
quickly, what a sense of real feeling could be
(how you hate the others)
4
not bored with the scent of huon pine. repacking
in ever looser segments, clothes like the blots
of wildlife preserved out there. we spot-fish illegally,
again, parade past the eco-toilet, again,
just as ever-boggled as starfish on the bay.
like at the caravan park convenience store –
nobody wants what you have… with that
we rejoice. spiffy little carved train carriages,
all soon noted, even in the hazy laugh-pod of first class.
endless booze clarifies the mist.
I’m carrying a sassafras twig all day, by touch
mentally rechecking the memories, two by two,
placing the odour as a pivotal future crutch.
rememberance of scents past.
this sprung beach at nightfall, defies watering down.
we are shadows glazed in gold-pink, captured
by the correct aperture, & we are at times
worth the danger.
rainforest blues / countless photo ops.
you’d pan for gold perpetually, given the time.
I give you mine
& wind the bus home
all things a question of credit.
5
the hedge maze is the permission we all need
to run to flail (kids make friends / I don’t)
it casts into relief the world I wanted
to love (should have been a product of rigour)
it doesn’t follow, but alcoholism is studiously observed.
I’ll observe anything involving a boat. stumbling
past dubious deeds & the desire to meditate,
the lack of such follow through.
all you do is have the ability to know this.
service with a beep. armrest reading light.
the blackened essence of travel.
me pitching it at you.
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