fishing
both ways
after
a dream, 15.3.2001
fishing
both ways. anticipating a visit to a new friend in a high place where
it is hazardous to park. drop in a green line and a fish may
foul-hook you.
walking
up the hill to Africa past screaming Chinese lorries, i see an old
Gittoes rape never before televised.
in
the pleasant house over the sea. my car becomes a suitcase. i am the
self of my former shadow. we drink from gold-rimmed china and smile
all the time at the wrong end of the microscope.
deep
in the beefheart of texas, the valley cradles the diamond-dust dawn
and the victor blames the victim. it rains oil. black is beautiful.
but where are the planes? there ought to be planes. send in the
planes.
this
place is a lintel, teetering.
this
place at the top of the land, crossing a natural limestone bridge in
the wind. wearing nothing but a poetry competition, the chads flutter
down like ticker-tape or paper profits. there are lies here, floating
in the saucer. a kettle whistles in the dark. the black-and-white
keyboard misses out most notes of the rainbow. Booker T. Washington
plays on. there is a twist of muslin round his big toe.
i
have yet to see a farmer who doesn’t wear a baseball cap and a
pitchfork, dreaming of Jenny Lind, happy in my red, white and blue
herring.
he
plays the stock market by ear and no one listens. fishing in a grand
piano. him use a hand-line and the string burn him finger, lord have
mercy. the capitalists revolutionise the instruments of production
and call the tune till it sticks in their throats.
they
set dogs of idiocy to guard my door. at the end of the rutted dirt
road the barred hills in their alpenglow are bumpy as orange peel,
the clouds are hogsheads of war.
the
huge sea sparkles with unsold white goods. computers bob in the surf.
and bodies. the planes have gone fishing for cities.
the
possum wakes me scrambling across the tin roof. a thump like a human
footfall. i crawl into my car at 4 a.m. and go fishing from a
borrowed plywood canoe. the flathead on the sandbar recognise me,
chuckling. beyond the recording heads of the Mogo River, the sea
becomes a suitcase. a laptop.
back
in the car dripping, i dream. an alpaca hilltop. baklava sandhills.
litmus seaweed. a besuited elevator and the microsurgery of cant. a
menagerie á trois. i become a lost watch.
winding
down by Candelo.
The flathead on the sandbar recognise you...hell, the flatheads recognise ME. :)
ReplyDeletethey have taste!
ReplyDelete(this is actually quite an old piece, had no supermoon-influenced inspiration last night!)