Don't believe what you're told. The woman forced to take the fall is not the woman who wrote these words below. I have returned her to him and to you.

Ethel lived and fought for the words taken from her by shysters and flim-flammers when uncle Ern died and her servitude was shattered. No longer need Ethel hide behind the suburban myth. So much depends on kitchen tables and desperate midnights, when children look over the shoulders of the moon. I can see her still, my mother the loyal sister crying over the paper and secretly pulling words through the screen door of life, remembering how Ern lay sick and weary in the back room beyond. So often she would cry out: O Vegemite! O crapola!

The Malley poems resolved to give us a new literature and these brief psalms of where and how that rising future would happen are more than formal spasms or gustatory flushes. They live on, making no distinction between akam and puram but instead stride forward into their own transmigratory pact with the new, giving rhythm to their action. They are multitudes.

My mother is now flown. I still sing, not worrying about interpretative gaps. The half-eaten pizza of theory is now less cogent than its sodden crust. I present myself as ongoing research, a new bird of transgression, getting the bite back on reality, not as an echo, or a sign but unknown to unknown, the surprise of existence.

These are our wilder Hebrides. Now is the hour of the novachord!

1.
You were frequently covered by heavy sky.
This sight of you at your superficial lowest
I've limited to dreams, intruder
at the entry of order.
Then ignorance relaunched its vista of another day
………………….
adapted to further muddy waters.

Kestrel concepts are without faith
bread and fish, miracles, shutdowns.
You, expert of pentagrammed desires
the magical resistance to lazy newspapers
of the white man, greyed the centre
as destiny swans the calm, smoothly.

Silken eyes excluded me, the girl
as interlocutors thrummelled basalt coasts
at the order of a love of mine
………………………
Although these prognoses are executed
in no place, writing is the incomplete
its ends interrogate the temporary ones.

2.
The symbols were obvious, despite doors.
In the park, I skipped to disapproval of birds
nipples of iron oxidising under the kiss
loaned for the weekend
while new people leaked, disjointed and broken
gripping with knotted hands
cloud and bugle in oblique Footscray.
Outside the torn quartz of the plaza
elephants contorted walls
and vapid monstrances were raised in protection.

In the hour of the fist and ribaldry
these Chinese horizontal lines ran tangent
to the rainbow.
We visualized a flash of folding sideshows
to the east of these diversions.

One hour was more intelligent than most
its pulse like a raised registry.
Then it was good bye to forms
the dumb version drowned in a green lagoon
while cancellations caught in night's red tape
the rig of an echo generation.

Promise of new configurations became pride
estimated dreams replacing
…………………….
and houses of slaughter.
Declarations and agreements
about the squalor of order
flanked the water with blue angels
their dark hats fitted with false grams.

I remember the clear dark, its luminous thorn.
Density as desire, it burned bright, briefly.

3.
Solidity for the prudent!
We were wraiths carrying scandals of data
in excess, you and I, squeezing the buttock
of newspapers and sucking florentines
siding with the etceteras, cultivating deflections
into a lake of colours that breath of rosy losses
whose tracks gather at the moved mountain
along toxic modulations
………………..
fish moving to the will of crossed objectives
limitless remorse like a gold mine.

A universe of birth marks blooms
in the face of old aches.
Nature's green centuries assemble in chains
off centre from time's convex.
They will taunt for the duration.
We can only be ordered as we are
spectators shanked to ibises along a dead Nile.

Vacancy, then you offered the guide
announced as a sale of mechanics
during hours of obligation.
O Denunciations! The hidden screw
continuous its moves. As such it is pitiless
even for one who vacillates within the dance.

Words are praise of morning's magpie
above facile flocks and wingtips.
There's a red wound at the edge
a slip in the outfield, jittery as history.
The imperial fog of the new poets
…………………….
and furies, their eyes bandaged by procedures
against incredible slatterns.

There's a state of hardness whose tastes
move more bitter than you, my brother.
We appreciated the double, its deceptive number
on the gothic distance, crenellated
for beauty and then the sky.
Old protests are the first place
we learnt to speak the obvious.

5.
The structure of your voice had no place
in that age of notionless men.
Codified ectoplasm snuck onto gibberish walls
between an oasis and the next mirage.
The single clerk of metamorphosis
started up the cobbled hill to the castle
all those collated images preserving
the languish in centres of Europe
and the right to be sad till his own burial.

Forgets sins which run between our hands.
The gum's tears are also true
while the wily spider
turns aphorisms on any newcomer.
Despite the thrill of the cock that is nightmare
I continue your rhythm, images and measures.

Brother, I have often stumbled into erasure
the trash of existence piles into inevitable
graphic conclusions
……………………
My evasions burst their basins.
I lived a grey shade suburb
moulded on rust, on clutter without act.
I duplicated the infinite.
Beyond, bird flown.