We Ask More

By | 1 May 2018

‘Give we the hills our equal prayer,
Earth’s breezy hills and heaven’s blue sea;
I ask for nothing further here
But my own heart and liberty.’

Emily Brontë

Ask everything more of layout under pressure.
Ask for depths outside and maybe beyond sacred texts.

Reconfigure ‘peace accords’ in glyph-take from deficits
filling out coupons and decorations of hope — elope

in weather maps and tracking, diagrams and divinations.
Ask jam sessions to reconstitute your faith, to make

the dried stalks — wicks — of long dead orchids
to act as spectrometers in the shade of eucalyptus.

Ask more in circulars, gravity-fix of personality,
all those making monsters in snippets of bushland —

such machinery sits in sheds, comes out, deletes
a stretch of flooded gums, returns, settled down.

Ask further of here, ask to shed skin in quietude.
Think of how friendships can kindle in old gaols —

exhibits: chain & ball, inducing of claustrophobia
when that’s a self-parody of the absurd: walls

already closed in, ticket of leave revoked in
striated light, and even back then gerygones,

pardelotes, prelates, roisterous mating song of rufous
whistler. Even then, as if, prayer for asking

to reset, play it differently, or fait accompli?
Never. Not in the hills of production, selfsufficiency.

Correlate a sea in the eye-drought!
What screech of epiphany dismissed for love?

We ask more under cloud where burn comes
fast and shockwave is no application — too

easy to see the disposition of incongruity
is setting up an image, phytochemical symbolism.

Why ask to ask more of core beliefs shed
when stress levels rise? To whom, and why?

Knowing more of lore than one should, it edges
under display, but can’t be plumbed, scrutineers.

A leisure of worship, a relief of granite and clay,
of laterites fines to spread out as tracks to London

or Rome or even an island like Singapore. Television
reception is poor, and that’s to be written as pyramid.

Here, further, out, nothing. Here asked of, a satellite
photographs as firebreaks glare, veins of geometry

leavened: heat signatures of all life, the beetle
we are surprised by (wherefore?), echidna gone

now from dead log ripped open, termite-less
city fallen out: after the event, the spiritual glossary?

Travel to define a feather’s curve, it’s readiness
or unwillingness to wet or dry, precise place

of arising. Could be said simple as flight,
with interference from all directions. So,

allot this fragment to that erosion,
this banging on about the same old thing

to that poisoning. Some of it, honestly — epigene
you can’t see grammatically, can’t add to programme.

And a loop in a signature doesn’t guarantee
cross reference, any more than echoing out

into marri flowerings makes ID — tinted snow
over hill bristles south of here, indeed indeed!, so

overwhelming that we’d believe the bunker-busting dozer
parked — snuggled — behind a few of them for over

a week now is contrite, pulling its head in,
lying low till (at least) the glorious palaver

of opening is over. Then down down down
into copyright and colonial overture of Underworld

idiom, a pew a cushion to kneel on, yank out weeds
in the old way (visions of ancient relatives?).

Ask more of a subject than an encyclopaedia
can offer you. Ask rubric and antiquity and transmutation,

ask gnosis and eitic/n-eitic/heitic/t-heitic & glory barbs
(a thumb is infecting from being scratched pulling caltrop).

Sore. Prayers lugged to carry you via — no way to obtain
lift when said and gone? Stirred in dust and residue

of manufacturing? Really, ask for more than shoot to kill
take aim at your denial of scorched earth? Your — us other:

‘You gotta ask yourself, do you feel lucky, greenie punks?’
says the funny fairground fella, all pukka on Twitter.

We mean — commonplace, common prayer in league.
Such power quickfix laugh model stand-up massacre mirror.

It’s all in the splurge, the burst of ‘information’. Lamentations
are lamington drives to collate a backlash — the seedbank

(genetically modified) of moralising calls out moralists.
Pitchfork realism in tractor loveland, we bow down

and take our rolling back of vegetation on the chinwag.
Wagtail does its watching, don’t you worry. No fear!

Ask everything more of layout under pressure.
Ask more, ask more of jam sessions ask more

of nature descriptions ask more of annunciations
of erasure, ask more of art therapy and sacred texts.

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