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.
Copyright © Jim Marshal | Year Posted 2009
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