Robert Verdon, #18, Un Coup de dés

Title with apologies to Stephane Mallarmé, ‘Un Coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard’ [= A toss of the dice (never will abolish chance)]

Towards the top

of the Wrest-Point Casino

not gambling a cent

as virtuous as virgins birthing

or bathing in sunshowers of money,

sky not an inkblot

but the page before the inkblot

occurred to Rohrschach;

wind off the estuary

clean wind as at sea

cold wind through windows

that don’t open far enough

to allow all sorts of

adventures

we get vertigo thinking about —

not just luckless gamblers

tossing themselves away too

but cat burglars shinning upwards

for other gamblers’ winnings

and desperate teenagers

of all ages and sexes

looking for a peep show

at least in fantasy

(that source of all we have,

whether architect or bee)

…

Oh, what a time we have

living it up like potentates

not feckless, fuckless gamblers,

with twin showers

where semen fountains

and spas explode

with girlish enthusiasm

into invisible inkblots

known only to the inner circle,

looking down on half of Sandy Bay

as shorebirds creak below

like blunt handsaws

as we sow bulbs on stony ground

raising round towers on shifting sand

measuring each soaring floor

from the one below, not from the base

as they warned us never to do

in Sunday School

when we were rootless kids

but how can we lose, anchored to the root of all evil?

No, we’re not risking a cent

virtuous, venial, venal, venereal

voluptuous as vampires

potluck potentates

bingo billionaires for a day

ogling

as our Mum ’n’ Dad shares

ascend

as the would-be corpses plummet

safe in the faith

that we point like the magnetic lift shafts

towards the summit

our ship won’t come in

like the Lake Illawarra

we shall all rise to the top

or even higher

raising our tower

in the face of heaven …

But one day

wind off the estuary

clean wind as at sea

cold gale through shutters

parted slightly on the bridge

(the captain, oh our captain, peering

out at the odds),

we’ll hit the jackpot,

watch amazed as it

showers down,

like manna, or MONA,

foaming and bubbling

around our age-webbed feet,

and exult, wind-blown,

as it sweeps us out

into the Great Southern Ocean

to swan about with the mega-mermaids

and other

champions of the millennium,

shareholders in a haunted castle

that cannot defend itself

from within.