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we are succulents our cool jade arms open over clean tables our fine bone china minds pull the strings of our tongues together we plait our thoughts with the television back through the aerials and transmission towers prodding through the literal fog the mechanics of which distance does not startle us or the ears pretend to hear the telephone the page also wearies us we have taken the meaning out of things by laying them face to face in our dictionary of emotions we are so entirely alone that we are unaware of it and we enjoy the religion of solitude because religions are at base meaningless and we can turn from them to a new hobby to clean ashtrays or emptier whiskey glasses we the women of our building Margaret Gladys Cecily Ida Eileen and I have the cleanest washing on our block we are proud and air our sheets although it's a long time since any serious stain or passionate figment seeped through that censorious cloth we have plants one of us has a budgie and I have three fish the details are unimportant God does not come here often we would be suspicious if he did without an identity card we collect each others' mail remind each other of garbage days and are frightened of the louts from the skating rink but in the night I leave my curtains open and air my pendant tremulous breasts
the population controller slips into disguise his charming suit his veil of words conceals his gaze he has laid out the fields and filled them with blossoms and counted the money jars in his SimCity slim city androgyn sharp bodies are worry perfect slicked back souped up cool as drones the neutered ones will dance for one another in the pages of glib they make their ideal hexagonal cubicles gleam with honey they gel their wings catch their reflections in passing pools hope they’ll win somehow against the odds they won’t the beekeeper has a boxed and ready fear of bees he won’t let them forget he tells them duty honour the sacredness of home and holds a smoking gun for dissident and obedient alike those who gather in the courtyards of fame he’ll teach his rules those who gather in the squares he’ll fight with guns and scorn those who write destinations in the air he’ll silence his fields and his alone are edible he’ll say and all the rest are poison and all those who disagree are fools or mad and must be fought for sanity and for country and the bees obey
on someone else's place it seems to him the land slings distance way out the dirt is dead and the sky seems twisted the beat of the stones is wrong he doesn't know how to say it there are no words no opportunity and anyway what would you say that you're a stranger and this doesn't say it at all he walks with his weapon through the town and from time to time he sees the luscious curl of intimacy the uncommon common life it's dressed differently he can't understand the language rasping and gargling another time he'd be an interested tourist now he's a hunter and the hunted soon they say he'll be freed to retreat home where the earth is vein deep and when he puts his hand on the ground he'll feel it beating but now he can't remember home though he knows the words well enough back paddock Steve's paddock the yard it's just words but now the imam calls and winds a veil around his senses and sometimes he thinks he'll never get back to where he belonged
She is effulgent in the dark halls of town. She is listening but they are hearing. Her skin is blistering and sharp with sparks. She is listening for the crick of grass underfoot. They are hearing her heavy paces. She is straining to feel the hum of the air. They are hearing her voice wailing like a warrigal. She is being quiet to count the breathing. They are hearing the stertorous cracks of her fine pure voice. She sings knife prising the clenched hills shrieked and sharp with danger. They are being calm and combing their hair. She is brittling the unseen strings connecting. They are wishing softly in the afternoons. She is testing with her naked feet where the oyster edges are.
there are times when you should listen to the world I think like for instance the time a meteorite came through the roof and through the ceiling and landed on my desk in the middle of the papers and things undone to say it smouldered would be to become poetic but it did smoulder and I was sitting there at the time about to pick up my pen then I was covered in dust fragments of roof deaf with surprise and there it was not too big not peculiar except for it not being where it should be or perhaps exactly where it should be as I say a message