They take some responsibility for your precipices,
as much as following ought to raze the civic.
Largely, however, obligation, smirking, abides.
*
Wanneroo drive-thru of the talking cars.
It makes the terminations of diversity seem ternary,
that is, complexly coded, which they are. And it gets worse
with the arcade, that expensive oasis of winning diversion,
but the hand is not propped to the head, hence not meditating.
Trainee, fertile ethical puck and jailer, take suit of purpose.
The winnings spread evenly between the chance workers,
who dissolve with winning. The managers especially
fledge themselves with sovereign contempt, is their cope,
but this is bought, is phenomenal and not spectacular.
Trade you my forklift licence.
*
Great Eastern Highway, its galleries.
Hume Highway, Pitt Street; elsewhere.
Less than spectacular, the marmoreal recess
reserved for revolutions of sterile crystal ball
paperweights of a tedium quotient celebrated
as the self exposed from the crowd
by live vivisection; if you yourself can show your guts
for what they are, lancing them with this rictus audit.
Maybe your military are not returned to victory
or nirvana, but are gravely alive to the autobiographies
of marginal parole Canberra, or elsewhere.
When I blow a gumleaf, it’s an instrument.
Sad on many of the in-roads. Nearby, though,
solipsism heights.
*
I saw the motorcade dazzle with ribbons that year.
The universe is a miniature, when you ride Eastman’s line,
westerly at least the genesis of erosion,
like an apnoeic turn, calumniates the brow,
if only to sign it pain.
Guilty of fading, turned away from time.
Midday, she is rubbing the forehead now to wake,
somewhere, somehow, in time.
Trainee, you are not at peace
but you are always well-dressed.
Should I shake Burley Griffin’s hand
it would be with the kid glove of the trainee,
parked in the trainee’s car
with the trainee’s car deodoriser swinging.
You are never really working, trainee,
virtue, maybe, but punctual, accidentally
beginning the dictation which is proof.
Should I shake his hand.
But she does not wake, the dazzle under the folds
renders superfluous the shire of the valley.
Bushfire smoulder stymies cataract ogling valley.
Roleystone, again. Of the busted crown, she first points out
a coming explorer who is actually a speculator,
who works selectively for money, knows no journalism,
no other reason approaching than toward
the prerogative of selection.
*
The shaman’s electrolytes wane
when the betablockers shriek.
Chemist, he is propped like a clown, but his romantic life
is forever mystery. Bleached paperbacks shiver
for memento’s sake
when his wheelchair banks and the rafters sharpen.
Trainee’s nervousness eases, the manager stops lecturing,
avoids his cigarette, then the ombudsman
calls. Certitude legible by the lids, why in privacy
candour is inappropriate and you are essentially lying
to yourself suffering, but keep a filing system on the present
locations of the caravan park. The caravan park
is very enthusiastic, has a long drafted history of presents.
Presence. Plural presents unfolding drafting unfolding presents plural.
Moonshine and nudity follow suit like KGB false memories
and a general Cold War relief, if it wasn’t for the declassified
McCarthy. Aitken wonders how many tears collect
in the phone. Turn to the zombie fictions for the chronicle
of the Western’s final parallelism: a West parallel with West.
Find a real shore.
So, his adoption to our supernumerary redoubt, which can only
claim sebum as a concertina moat, clashes with polite society,
and it isn’t long before our adoption is given the name Palestine.
Much of our politics gathers the deleting name.
So many dead leaving sinecure; hydrate more to make
sure the punch hits jelly and absorbs the universe.
Her hand is propped to her head.
Is this melting or thinking the prop.
Compass, stylus, VCR or GPS device, she is perfectly calm.
*
What did the old fool teach you that dissolves?
Though leathers for spacious spooled flesh
make the Great Eastern highway distinct from the lecture,
the domestic from the landed, not entirely timber.
Woods for the acetone of course, and the methylated,
the windbreak will keep children’s certitude warm
now that the lunar is less popular than, frankly, the void.
Titian and Darwin imagined, so K and Hamlet,
I ask Portbou,
Montserrat is no treaty when treat is evacuation
is caves of ice, antres dark, and in toto.
The gasket imploded on course to flight from all else.
Having been to rehab, the authenticator is conscious
that documentation is the threshold the nineteen sixties
Fluxus breaches when rushing through it in
three canvases. World fascicle breach. But the authenticator
likes, for example, dilation, red eyes and cheeks, candid bones,
whittled ears, the inversion of peevishness, the pallor rose,
Chelsea, Balmain, elsewhere.
When the papers put out the hit on his capture, and the tall man
toppled by style and hygiene becomes a lintel
in the renascence arch, which isn’t as parodic as it wanted to be,
the graffiti engravings get kind of serious, and kind of
indicting, if stentorian intention technology taciturn.
*
The proximity to celebrity is celerious and,
like Putin’s truth serum, savoury,
lathering a dangerous guinea pig
for transpacific courtship,
making both hemispheres mutually seem sad
and irreconcilably asymmetrical.
Trainee, play some music before you’re torn to bits
and I become a twin cam.
Trainee, forget the songs from childhood,
don’t you remember the bees swerving for callistemon?
It’s often the moment you try a hypnagogic move
that you fall asleep, speaking up or inhaling,
or snore stuttering referendum.
The taxi rank poll, a queue, thrives with sleepers.
*
She isn’t awake, but the story of her dreams
structures the kaleidoscope ciphers
resembling this genetic history of commons,
when exposed as cardinal.
Newtown’s crowd was silent at the peak of its throng,
there is so much commonality in certitude.
Views of the streets from the streets street-view.
The cars come in unpainted and unprogrammed,
the documentation is timed, not signed.
Actually, boredom and the quorum are doing famously.
Watch:
The vanishing point returned rotten
It was conscious, and Jupiter nursed the solar
System tampering, setting
Noun antiquity centripetal, good enough
All the wine I need to drink
To throttle the voice
I’d like to put him on trial for each compulsion
He foists when he leaves early
For quadrivium
He might be sprung, call it sprung esteem
If I was there for 1P/1982 U1, 1986 III
I hope more to be there 28th July 2061
If only to mark the tiny limits of his avenues
Perforce his churlishness
I am not a fontanelle
But a vacuum and an island mouthpiece spun
It’s the snore that starts the cramp,
Between the capstones the bougainvillea
But I’m mostly sad about the universe
But only because the universe is a diamond
When I ask for lead or sulphur
It’s his head melts with lead and burns with sulphur
A system sings the melody I prearranged
For Palestine’s renascence, but over time
Something more like a Doppler drag takes over
There hasn’t been melody for ages
In fact, I think a tone from petroleum jelly
Was high-jacked at my birth
They called it melody, but it has long been
Sebaceous ocean crystal
Suddenly Stravinsky sounds generous
And romantic; he wants me to dance with him
I might I think dance with jelly
I might I think dance with jelly
And romantic; he wants me to dance with him
Suddenly Stravinsky sounds generous
Sebaceous ocean crystal
They called it melody, but it has long been
Was high-jacked at my birth
In fact, I think a tone from petroleum jelly
There hasn’t been melody for ages
Something more like a Doppler drag takes over
For Palestine’s renascence, but over time
A system sings the melody I prearranged
It’s his head melts with lead and burns with sulphur
When I ask for lead or sulphur
But only because the universe is a diamond
But I’m mostly sad about the universe
Between the capstones the bougainvillea
It’s the snore that starts the cramp,
But a vacuum and an island mouthpiece spun
I am not a fontanelle
Perforce his churlishness
If only to mark the tiny limits of his avenues
I hope more to be there 28th July 2061
If I was there for 1P/1982 U1, 1986 III
He might be sprung, call it sprung esteem
For quadrivium
He foists when he leaves early
I’d like to put him on trial for each compulsion
To throttle the voice
All the wine I need to drink
Noun antiquity centripetal, good enough
System tampering, setting
It was conscious, and Jupiter nursed the solar
The vanishing point returned rotten
In Belfast, there is certainty of a trickle
which is a tirade. The elephants abominate early sparkle
to swollen innocence, the tarp for the sports car
hides all of the stag beetles at the biconvex meniscus
of Lana Turner and Lana Turner
in the paranoid projection of self in fifties and void
World another matter which does not resemble America
but a quaint acre, which in every way is a failure
the falser history of all nameless beginnings
at lawn, not bitumen
At bitumen the glass, the glasses,
the vitreolalia of the quake of near-future
corpuscles of vision shunting and burbling
gasping for truth, but at Belfast there is a certainty
of a trickle which is a tirade
The Southern Ocean is mostly ongoing
and snarls like a Rottweiler, pumice driveway
is the first lottery
There aren’t any more lotteries
I wish the cinema was funnier, and not just funnier than
it is but funnier than it once was, because
there is always a moment in Buster Keaton where
eloquence of form smirks. Smirks are not funny.
Is it only the big events, like a falling house, that matter
I don’t want to emulate a single modern comedian
in this ballroom of deadpans of history, though the stopped
watches in crystal might be enviable
The dumbwaiter is a person
I had no idea
It is the first machine, which a pulley rates late in,
so I have confused the bodies of events,
but not many houses have, thankfully
but not many houses have, thankfully
so I have confused the bodies of events,
It is the first machine, which a pulley rates late in,
I had no idea
The dumbwaiter is a person
watches in crystal might be enviable
in this ballroom of deadpans of history, though the stopped
I don’t want to emulate a single modern comedian
Is it only the big events, like a falling house, that matter
eloquence of form smirks. Smirks are not funny.
there is always a moment in Buster Keaton where
it is but funnier than it once was, because
I wish the cinema was funnier, and not just funnier than
There aren’t any more lotteries
is the first lottery
and snarls like a Rottweiler, pumice driveway
The Southern Ocean is mostly ongoing
of a trickle which is a tirade
gasping for truth, but at Belfast there is a certainty
corpuscles of vision shunting and burbling
the vitreolalia of the quake of near-future
At bitumen the glass, the glasses,
at lawn, not bitumen
the falser history of all nameless beginnings
but a quaint acre, which in every way is a failure
World another matter which does not resemble America
in the paranoid projection of self in fifties and void
of Lana Turner and Lana Turner
hides all of the stag beetles at the biconvex meniscus
to swollen innocence, the tarp for the sports car
which is a tirade. The elephants abominate early sparkle
In Belfast, there is certainty of a trickle
