Invasion (Derek Motion)

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.
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
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.
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)
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.
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.