Suggestible like a Straw Pounded with a Rubber Mallet

31 October 2012

Viewed through the sliding
fountains of mirage,
the anti-tines
of a widely spaced comb,
or just croaked out in panting
chest infection,
the subject
becomes loosely fibrous,
jellied,
clotted with air pockets,
a freshly painted
glamour
from some previous life,
delayed
in the mirrored panels
of subaqueous
self-similar
nightclubs:
The Babylonian,
The Babel,
The Electric Workers,
The Hamas,
The Golf View
Hotel-Motel,
The Twin Towers.
After getting drunk with Mum
in the wettexed kitchen,
you sound spongily
susceptible,
velveteened
for cynical command,
housebound
for the maestro’s brush-strokes.
So when the early career academic
with a volume problem
barks
that he
doesn’t follow your argument:
disconcerted,
not realising
he is an idiot,
you mistakenly
withdraw your submission.

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