god of the cracks
god of the cracks, god of the bendsthe segue god, joiningthat which should not followambiguous playerwith slant rhymesintersextingmona lisa with monobrowsmiling past watchersas she spots the gay godthe god who goes downsweet curser of figtreesjust to perplex theologists —ah, but how they will shift meaningsletting fall earth for nuggetsand the dust is the thingthe dust and the shakingthe sun's daily spotto!peeping through cloud browsand cracking a simile
Concepts retired as caravans
Wisdom,Gratitude andThe Art of Picklesbought a caravantoured Australia.Wisdom reads the maps —then there's picalilli with cheeseon granny square rugs.Thanks, says G. Thank you.Time flows spicy and slow.
Whither Wisdom,Gratitude andThe Art of Pickles?They pause outside Wollongongwill trip down to Kiamagently blowing out thought bubblespickled fartsand rugs of thanks.
All down the roadthey play 'Spotto'.Yellow bursts like a parable.Yellow tangy as Branston pickle.The infinite peace of yellowwrapped in hugs of glee.
After hours in the op shop(After 'The Pawnbroker's Shop' by Charles Dickens)
At last the door is closed, and down we all slither downfrom our thin metal supports. Smelling of mothballs,of sweat, of lavender, we hump towards the centreof the shop, now cleared of customer and clerk.Oh, we are become Medusa, but Medusa with tonguesinstead of snakes, with a pillow-clump of ourselvesfor head. I can taste a soupçon of peppermintas I caress the mauve blouse that twines itselfaround me. I sense the woman who wore it onceundoing sweets in church, feel her boredom assuagedby that little marsupial jump of taste buds. Her attentionblooms back to the parson's numbing drone.
Mauve tastes me;the weekend scales that decorated my plaid sleeves,impart a certain memory of trout. I feel her feelthe rough arms of Jack, scratch my khaki armsas he used his to clean his catch. She hums, and is itthat never-ending ballad about 'The Wild Colonial Boy'mild Jack whistled crookedly through a weekend smile.She has caught it, firm as a plump rainbow fish,netted by my weft and weave; now passed on.It mixes with her former's hymns; angels and fish entwined.Like octopi we squirm, and taste the picnics of memoriesspread like a smorgasbord amongst us. The sad violetof a young child lost, the acrid orange anger of thug,the occasional honey of the plainly good.
That last one wore jeansso ugly and ordinary they might strut down a catwalk,if fashion were to do mere patched practicality.Denim and I meet, and recognise a tint of mutual pastas we taste each other's recipe. Perhaps we are snakes,after all, shedding onto