What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

By | 31 October 2012

a revhead full of vodka slushies,
fading bling, the schlock of the old.
just don’t hand over the car keys.

sampling a fizz of schweppervescence
I think of us, you and me,
our lifetime lack of fancy salaries.
on a close and muggy morning
I muddled a muddled job interview,
their risible enquiries,
my irrelevant,
yet innovative, projects,
dah de dah


walking up through Erskineville
the florist’s mauve-tinged cabbages
remind me of Derek Jarman
and of a lover who stayed indoors
drawing plants
for years,
funny to think it now
but when she said it was agoraphobia
I visited her darkened flat
and gave her all my Neil Young records.


I wonder how it is for you, this instant,
like, today,
at your four days a week job,
a cluttered counter –
papers, keyboard, pencils,
‘On The Level Everyday’
stacked beside something intense, like
‘Living in the End Times’,
guarding a small corner of sapient activity
(sounds pretentious,
though to me, true)
charged with bearing, mien,
not temporal,
more the neurons’ frenzied,
although private, oscillations,
that some groover might call ‘vibes’,
going as fast as
or faster than
the Giant Hadron Collider
zzzzmmmmmmm zzzzmmmmmmm zzzzmmmmmmm
in the government-funded
intellectual art world


casual days, loafing with art theory,
worrying only that the bright summer light
might pierce the shopfront windows,
and fade the display

my memorylessness –
which direction does the building face?


something lacklustre about
lacking lustre
like the squarest greyest
block of apartments
always called ‘Liberty’


I feel it
going to my very shivering, clicking
axiological bones,
that palpitating measure, (what she say?
what she mean?)
that you have going there,
art critic.

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