Sweet Meats

By | 1 May 2012

The waiter’s resurfacing inflames love like a cotton field
in cyclone’s eye. How near we feel the coast,
the coast being a hoax of a military force, but the pitter-patter
could hardly disturb this, our wading
through day.

A face of red bottlebrush, it’s hot like dune sand
that labourers tend in secret at the edges of the north side.
Burial is another word for flagging the issue
and making a shareholding of halcyon perimeters
and the salubrious Venn.

None of the men seem to be carrying pocketknives, though one can never
be sure in a country where the sand beats hotter than the head,
and the sure foam with submission.

Want to commend the industry that endlessly converts,
that elicits the conversion renaissance, uncontained
by its steel capillaries or its fuel brain, especially
the personnel who feel unmodern tickling by hand
the larynx of a beast. Beast commence this pacemaker.

The Venn is full of chilli dogs and burgers with mustard and chips never cold,
the same colour as dune sand roasting and that Tasmanian in newspaper
cartouche. And you’re the inveterate client. The entrance? The entrance
appears a cot to your gilt, celluloid eyes, Golden Age of Cinema sash.
Tim Wright is from somewhere near here, but inland. His collection
is Poseidon’s million tiny barnacles whose billow is an echo jangle rustle
like rain in key of amethyst.

The coast falls off easily into a glabrous plain
and has no passengers.

Best credulous following the Tokaido of Hiroshige
in absolute silence, like the rail purling that valley seam
in Mundaring they’ve found his bones in,
beside biscuit shards of brown glass.
That silence there disinterred in plain sight and warming
under January exposure still unpenetrated even
by the dry gust rejoinders that welter curious after the passing
of the unnamed cyclone. Shyness turns turn Walter Benjamin
into Sydney again, cold but not Berlin, and July!

Uncommon anyhow, at least the car has a gig, and worthy of chasing it,
the clandestine lithography beyond the conversations of Newtown silos
its ambition.

The median strip in Parkville and the swollen encyclopaedia.

Warped from the chase and chases prior, by dint of familiarity
inured but indentured to this, the speedy pursuit
sans the white teeth of man with gun with horizon like a “banzai”.

utter                    to your welfare             is          only by my of             you    are

Their bread was soaked in molasses and sun dried
to a crust, their peninsula was like tea flowering
in the plume of its own green ardour.

The staple then,
 ‘can bread’,                  or anything      cure
D –

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