John Malley: Soil of Brie

By | 1 December 2010

crossroad shit-hound
bound to concupiscent literalness
boundary-barker, holing up in a shift-shop
gears, open for years
selling antique British motorcycle parts
on the highway abides the devil,
on a freeway, on a bench
running motors to exhaustion
fumes blackening throats to purple and
wringing voices like dish cloths
like loamy Iruma soil, grow rice or tea there
the basil has been dead for months but still
it stands disconsolate and heavy under
new browning skin
as erect as the Eiffel Tower
looking down the pin hole
of the Arc de Triomphe
to thread is the miracle of finding the exact
spot of the thrash. crashing old intellectual
bones, inside was a little person of bone
fragments, watermelon, orange juice, and mashed
acres of le bouche de affinoi
the dairy wept over the suicide
what a paste
martyrdom cannot be
dinner news, would sicken our guests, and they have
just arrived from Tasmania
their voluptuous hillside dairies know nothing of
the Parisian antipodes now calcifying and growing
blue within upset readers
continuing to brew yoghurt
filling the pumice holes
in all those books with burgundy
did fuck-all, ruined
our dry spell
drunk with love for winter
carrying picnic fish for our dog,
he licks his chops for the lawn.

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