I Sat Beside a Dead Fox

river. gold liquidcopper sheen & skypulp mashed upon fatrocked banks refracted beams; reflections. The kid squeal. The rowers chirp "hello" [multiple oar-chasm] we bridge it with a languid arm-sigh tooing, no fro. Yes, the 20th century is over, and the "Water-Noodle" has arrived. Time works different out here. The national spine doesn't belong to a book. No. Hold land in check, meaty planes sewed onto bone. Through the geothermal corridors where karadji's file into rooms discussing the hunt laymen like me listen in on dragonfly wings. Cherubs land.... "Mum, you're an old fart!" snorty laughs splashy goodness erections stay low. Kookaburras slot into. Their laugh lingers like a splinter in my throat and I don't follow. Family's an ascending arc orbiting this chubby orphan (he is all sickle, shaped like a question mark.) Re-arrangements. "I want to see if the wombat's home!" He's a dad alright, his salt 'n' pepper laugh more convincing than George Clooney. Paper grows inside us in wet reams. It's all an odd proud thing, this lick of space. The noise retreats, my heady sight dangles. Dizzy eyeball flesh in quicksand vaguely mired. A bordered scene: a symmety of Mates bathing in coy homophobia their gargantuan cocks reaching so far to touch each other! Forbidden to break the old pattern. This goldpan face persists. Is life a Saturation? Moist is good I like moist. Hairline dwellers polite oracles. My feet naked next to cigarette butts & weed the tethering of a slight libido a moist amulet hangs like a beard; sophisticated mist from the muddy cauldron. Copyright. 2009.