On the run from the W.A. police, her faking German accent
could be someone else: embassies [snapshot] in their circular
drives, late night music. Claus plays haus in Canberra,
surrendering to the domestic obscene. She home hones
in mu-mu when home so foolish, stretches her long legs
to admire shell pink toenails. Claus is punk hausfrau who only
just makes code. Still the morning deflate.
Before this rapid joy in sunglasses, remote mutes happen
in a box. Did you say instant? On the opposite side
of the lounge they have closed the borders to Europe.
Claus works the images, kills the sound. Prone and sensitive
before afternoon soap, that cool ex-wife, next-wife plot
creates such cosmetic intersect. All goes quiet, actors tho’ and
monstrous nobodies. Sound down politesse: each listening
elsewhere. Why we feel torrent almost tolerant. Outside
the wind freshens to mass moist air above the continent.
Though as a rule clouds avoid this place. Elsewhere
is mayhem in what should be Spring. Where’s the hope,
where’s the promise? It’s a disaster end to end, and everyone’s
muscling up, muscling in.
What really interests jostles her. Pause
and stretch: jigs, cutouts cutaways and reveals to that soft
unused skin. Could they be implants? Now she is sell, the soft
sell. How did it go so wrong? Inside the cage, life hardly moves
:toy truck, broken glass, rotten goop that is so sub-urban
:she’s been here long enough waiting at the zoo with the other
animals. Claus remembers the different pleasures of kissing a man
with three days growth and of a woman.
This is big. She feels irresponsible. Forget the future, un-imagine
a past, there is only here Ground Zero where she rents the view.
What did Little Gidding say about ends and beginnings?
The landline rings. Overhead a helicopter hovers, and out on
the street the police negotiator leans over the roof of his car.
The Future Un-imagine
1 February 2016