Sunday, January 19, 2020

Tug Dumbly - Stone


Stone   

Can’t leave a rock unfisted,        
a stone alone, but must  
Gutenberg press it to skin,                       
Cuneiform its text to palm      

of clay, weigh the cooled
magma tongue of a pebble
in wallet of flesh, wombed
like a coin in a vending slot

snailed to forefinger,
sprung to sinew
of the wrist’s slingshot,   
a siege engine drawn

like Russell Crowe full cocked:
‘at my signal, unleash hell …’
Go on, have a fling,
show us what you got -

the kinetic cleanse
of a raw chucked rock,
jemmying a rainbow,
pinchin’ gravity like a fat

child’s cheek, to crack a gum,
bounce from a pond,
be gulped like a frog
in the gob of a creek.   

There’s not always grace
but can be spectacle
to the Neolithic Games,
as two bushboys lob

sandstone clods from a cliff
into a Tom Roberts afternoon.             
Bailed Up
             they sail
                         the ravine
                                         
with the poxy aim
of a Berlin bombardier      
payload floating  
to the rock bed below

and oh the rapture as those   
golden chunks of honeycomb
explode in a violent crumble
of a most sweetly satisfying nature.   







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