The Shower-curtain You

By | 24 September 2002

the dream of the river shark
with two fins guess it's one each
for soup & killing & this bleak fracture
of morning in a dish can't survive
unless tv spliced / the green LCD
of the clock-radio-phone like a
baby caught in flashbulb headlights
or photograph of a cracked head &
the ads up here are weird / best to
avoid or point to the nearest saint
even if painted & name him/her
now living in a bag & calling you
Bob Marley outside the casket in this
no-way Trenchtown of blackbirder
sprinklers & streets lined with card
tables & poofs hiding each other's
arse cracks / the queue to get flogged
in the unwaxed predatory man-shadow of
Castle Hill & these eggs remind me / make
our first morning in Agra all Dr. Suess in UP
you know? – green eggs & ham? – & I feel
as empty & sick except alone & surrounded
by Australiana bullshit & maybe it's this
morning & the desolation that has filled me
but I'm thinking so fucken what? about everything
in particular the richness & adventure of our
native land & the famous range of sweetmeats
that are wholeheartedly enjoyed by everyone & the
neo-American smile of Clancy & his ten-gallon
hat & self-supporting trousers with 'Tauttex' like
Bradman or bullfights / tits in your face & the Anzacs
hit Cairo hell-bent for tea-towels & dripping from
room service your voice becomes distant an electrical
hum & skin worn as sodium / a strange ominous streetlight
& the exaggerated movements of the poet exude
an anxious yet winsome charm / the odd atmosphere.
pick a day from the mojo calendar or night will find
me listening to Frusciante in the garage in the darkness
singing 'hey, the way go forward & the way go back' &
poncho/toothpick close-ups minus the spurs again the walk
towards Spring Street is quiet the air conditioner outside
the corner shop drips with insistence & heavy like rain
in Brunei where visitors stare from elliptical portholes in sheets
of condensation / as windows or Christmas lights / a city of
candles beside a highway & the smell of wet paper
perhaps currency? the sock-puppet/marionette children &
their coconut sweets pink bicycle mailbox on my tongue at
low tide & the shower-curtain you in the hotel like we said at the stairs
between drinks & organics / the smell of leaf litter / your neck

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