Ern Malley Jr. : Crown Soliciting

By | 26 November 2005

In my gavelled stride — the park,
corbelled latrines
and stout diggers
repairing their trousers,
small cupids pissing barrels.
Peacocks dissolute
yet devout
warn of strangers,
the police grow fidgety,
as if they're
about to dance; so,
what's luck… ? A pack of foxes
barking in the undergrowth?
Vectored carp disgorging float bladders
in floodlit ponds? What figure
cauterizes the half-light?
Episcopalian hand warding off
a Mediterranean breeze, the Fremantle Doctor,
the Southerly Buster, assessed
as worth a weight of gold.
I graph my ectoplasmic undertakings:
the metic
inking of Pompeii,
the ionic foot,
theodolite and plumb bob,
decked out in the line of sight,
narceine but awkward.

Ern is of the park, and occasionally further afield. He channels, divines, and is pretty much an open book. He is losing his ambitions.

 


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