tupperware

we saw derek making a cup of tea: ½ turn, ¼ turn,

angel falls of sugar & the water blinked away.

a chipped china absence & you’d guess the cup

messed with the wrong glass (nightclub of

suds). derek effected this beverage to then sit

on a freezer & compost the adjunct images.

caffeine still leeching as if the pondering

was not just inopportune but obscene. 10

mins at the traffic lights. standing at the

wrong counter. the hamburgular’s in-store

appearance. derek seemed assured, such

instances fell ably to hand & often, perhaps a

quantifiable result of the heuristic honours thesis.

he massaged his right shoulder strained from

the irate nothingness repeated for too long.

he removed the teabag quashing a remainder

between thumb & forefinger. we eyed derek,

the arbiter of all final actions; mid-court rallies.

derek leaves off more tensile pursuits to drink tea.

he imagines it will jostle the senses & afford direction,

or so we suppose, observing because life is boring.

more dransfield…

from the purported LSD journal, Essai – Night trip:

‘Hey, mind, do that groovy spiral thing again.’

 

& if you really want to see your mind do that cool spirally thing (& who wouldn’t!), well, he’s pretty clear on what you should do (while at the same time archly aware that at least someone would read this (he knew i’d blog it)):

‘…if anyone is reading this and hasn’t already taken acid. he doesn’t know yet who’s living in his clothes, his head, his memory & mind.’

 

but do we really want to know that much? can you so the spiral thing & then turn it off, go to bed with a milo?

 

.

leaving stuff out

apparently kinsella’s new anthology of aus poetry contains a number of typos. i guess that sort of thing happens?

 

.

but life! not other, then.

for n.curnow

 

like the bland hug at one’s depth of bed-storms,

light glitches refigured to past teachers, creaming soda

my factual solace, hay-bale dreams. you fancied her

ponytail more than anything. sheet lightning levels above

slessor & his cool happenstance fizzled. this afternoon

we should reference the sheet-music that survives.

 

as i want to declare stuff now steadily: impart student

earnest life-lived wisdom & pre-war modish jubilant. i

want to get stoned like it’s a psych-trait, hang on people

in cars, organ players who slide in from ten years back

dragging the lines of lyric moment & brown leather.

awesome & un-meaningful cares had a colour. derek

just unaware of his image perceived by others: flashing

out boys-club academic lines, even a private phonecall

gets gotten, eventually. poor derek looking remote.

temperatures

a sogginess about the edged housing these

relevancies a cleansed approach rooms windows

to otherness lazily inspecting dope plants pollocked with

dew hazard the crisp yellow firmament of old news classified

texture everyone gardens without enthusiasm planning mentally

prove a point to the calendar networking like a cloud mores the

generality of friends fixing water-spray to property for an

outlook idea of tranquillity more industrious in the pressure-

system dropped like an old friend still room-to-room on

a highway i’ve been gone composting memory for a

year silver birch beside boulders shivery makes sense only

in the perceived difference abodes after dwelling proffer

signs of the intricate a portentous crack in the plastered

roof-craft spiders hovered outside glass slats we

invented habits so unique like locking the screen

growing our own contentedness let’s file away

lust in the poems i’ll have time the soil squish

& the table scrape here pledge never to misuse

‘scape’ though or ruin your knowing eyes not

hands in work, giant-sized wordsworthian

work that outdoes the words every time

paint the questions on the walls

others will answer with a

seachange shrug

lyric to signal my knowing

scooter my experimental garden-path see the light

of day mauled by species of roach eight numerous exhumed tally

at doors death but lacking of gleam go forth rubbered grips crack anyway paddle-

pop stick limbs fused to the road your best friend of convenience

bristled a jolt forces red hair he’s telling the big-side boys to fuck off

crazed not much else in remake just a skivvy & afl teachers

doing a nipple-dance let us retreat & mime cough romantic excuses out

excavate a bleached ball & reanimate the kid docile to bury headless barbie

mid-autumn vacuous year schedule intensity back a season or tune instrumental arrays

into 440hz fights nightly nicely & bright in paved mania assume some blitz

to coordinate the yoyo hula the moon as it signals hearth

the slated tussle like unforgettable chow mien

the pageant guest list

rustles. names an impressionist carpet of tan shag, the extrovert an old

cul-de-sac drive fenced knee-high. moribund as this secures a stingray shaped

 

sputum. ho, such sadness, it’s your tonsils hovering concrete from 3 bunks

away. blind torque reveals those weltered fictions, vascular distance:

 

firm-friends & their apple-stance of boredom, politics, or gunning

to the ice-cream-van just about whenever, now look abashed semi-

 

back-lit in the dandenong land. she’s splitting things in halves.

packeted detox powder to exact a new neighbour’s daft inertia:

 

hold me close near to bushfire sun, it’s pleasant aversion this.

what if all 1970s moment held a soft spot, a mnemonic dimple

 

or ontological gloat? we’ll swear at giveway signs, huff & gorge,

the utterances still mysterious, jurisprudence flavoured ‘guava’ now,

 

& i’m more commonly anticipated than ever otherwise; dante

spiralling in the wake of a barge. i thought he’d see me as captain.

 

nothing is a twist – just restaging an intervention with the dog present.

((poking nuzzles at loaves of fish) who cares, to view our saliva, what.)

 

in her window & a gossamer nose! nothing naked doing but

we’d planned to summon feeling from a fleet dive, so

 

test dancing, wade lists, ford experimental knitting, that, &

it might drift away. after treatment huh all is a

 

fail. though, quiet, away, sounds of a pageant.

Hola

Kenneth, sorry to have taken so long in getting back to you. I’ve been

watching the neighbours so often recently I think they’ve noticed &

are anticipating eyes at that shaft of fly-screen. The worrying thing

being, I traded in my gun that time there was an armistice, remember?

The vague wheelbarrow-fuck of history. I really needed the money.

Caring for number one like I’m just some dazzled champagne flute.

Dan gave / reminded me of your email after I used the laptop in the

pool. We won the raffle. What do you think: jelly-wrestling juxtaposed

with old microfiche research? Mormons on a leafy Sunday? Remember

not to go near the trees down the back of the place I used to live.

Don’t worry, I’m on maternity leave & a bit of gingerbread will help.