tab tab tabula rasa, trekking through this political landscape became
like walking along the backs of a fleet of felines racing toward eternity.
women keep showing themselves in different lights and I can barely tell
who is me and who is we as I alight a toroise-shell tom tom, their long
resplendent fingers reaching up to me as in rapture my my, I have belatedly
redefined the cubist imaginary. walking away from my carriage of forty years
to be your sister’s brother, not having murdered or seriously assaulted a
single one of them, unphased by the trauma, threshing through menacing
glances from the gallery, a head hiccuping on its spine, the cord plucked
by the delicious winds of historians, bling-blinging through the rough seas
of a pregendered slime, but man rises from this quag quag, my my, again! dis
appointment transfers itself through the network like the threat of regret
through the minds of the finches, marching, anti-ga-ga but pro-po-po, a
fine student of politics reflecting time on time, brother as person as person.
how can it not be? (modal nontology) but then, every number differs from almost
ever other, despite the want of some alarmists, scandalously clad. houses that
we dream of locking from the inside, property as death rite, marriage as
birthday cake, opinions belonging to their speakers like handbags, good
humoured losers tugging at them, the steam-boat of progress chuckles along,
suspending yourself on the arms of the deckhair like a long-held apprehension –
campaign mode (that’s french for the democratisation of fashion) let them have
epaulettes! this train of monkey-in-a-barrell damsels on my tails, better-saying,
wolf-becoming, dog-becoming, unbecoming of the chair, not wanting to
jinx my cock, crowing a fresh glass of responsibility, pouring it down my pants
and breathing in the steam, it’s great for the skin, go on, dive in! make me yours!

This entry was posted in gedichte, homelands, language(s), oz politics, poetry, prose/, repetition, reptiles, sharks, slugs. Bookmark the permalink.

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