Vapours
little delirium the first
a woozy clarity
adorns
all liars -
sucking
a nettle lozenge
in peril
of being
found out
(the lowest fear)
& so intensely
self-enclosed
maybe you'll
implode,
your
diction's
eccentricities
increase
with each fresh glass
of vile verdelho
& you make
a dark confession
I'd prefer
not knowing
little delirium the second
is nearly
as bad as
a eurovision song contest -
an awful something
grips the crowd
which, turning ugly,
boos
a feathery-minded
politician
announcing
his proleptic vision
to a world
of shrunken
bandwidths
where
everyone's called
'andrew'
& you have to
bring a plate
little delirium the third
a Tibetan jalopy
rolls across
the silvery sky,
the Sea of Tranquillity
fibrillates
& those
algae-coloured
hormones
make you sick,
your stability
collapses
like a stinking
puffy fungus
In Ultimo
leaving nature's
barbarism (spider
in a glove) behind
me I enter my
paved city -
pocked concrete
& traffic carbon -
sky's all
coppery night's
coming up
I follow
the man-in-the-dress
along a lane
littered
with litter
where
Carlo & Zanzi
have signed
the sub-station
roll-a-door -
more than a tag -
a declaration -
white strokes
wide brush
no lights on,
no one home -
downstairs
short striped rows
neatly arranged,
more organised
than the library
Iwork in -
I stand before
my bookshelf -
wonder if
I'm a little crazy.
anyone on
the answer machine ?
up to the third floor
for a lean
& a musing -
what colour's my posture ?
what colours my posture ?
here's the view
from the balcony -
grey & darker grey
brick wall office
windows computer
screens & tv screens
nearly always on
an office cleaner's
smoky silhouette
gently inverting
wastepaper bins
under large
cibachrome photos
of American
stars
look skywards
imagining -
every passenger
has taken
the holding pattern
to heart
I should
show some vim ! -
drive the car
somewhere,
walk into Chinatown,
loop the city
on the mono-rail,
decipher
an ignoble idea,
cook dinner -
toss
the colander of penne,
careful
not to steam
the B. Smith
& B. Holliday records
stacked
on the dish drainer -
all washed up
'n' ready
to spin
How To
work after work
without moping
let me drink
a blue ruin
in you lint
filled cafe
then gather
my decorated pencils
who knows what
determines what ?
Memo
nothing comes
except instruction
& you know
art isn't medicine,
something the arts
advisory committee
neglects to tell
the prime minister
as the pope
goes pop
goes platinum.
gift wrapping-paper
makes you weepy
at the local bar
where drinks
are twice the price
(a capitalist
unhappy hour).
you don't enjoy
the way you look -
it's not
a tv-presenter-hairdo,
more like a mop
a sir's wig
a bouffy puff.
you're not a mere
& fragile epigone -
no,
it's always the idea
that fixes you -
doodling in the time
between the paragraphs -
the wisdom or stupidity
of m. foucault
in his exciting quest
for the limit-experience -
afternoon nap material.
examined closely
your hair now
is about 55 percent
grey - & you're not
supposed to smoke
but want to.
once in another time
you were
the singing bass player
in clitoris band,
unconsciously immersed
in already
inculcated patterns
of rebellion - so full of
hashish (probably)
that you thought
fitzroy
was somewhere.
always hovering
on the periphery
of cliche - others
went from
dazed to dazzling
in a decade - while
you laughed along
at readings featuring
yourself, cocabola,
when the slim
& clever stanzas
were a cover
for your deep reticence,
your private reluctance
to shine - or even
to make any money out of it.
(Note: The lines "a woozy clarity /adorns/all liars"
which begin the poem "Vapours" are from Kenward Elmslie's poem "The Champ")