Lord A of Yarralumla

10 February 2015

The smell of heaven To a truck driver Nullabored, it may be McDonald's The dog combines bone with noseshadow of absent master The writer mixes new printed book wisp and any wine Christ died scented with sweat and piss and others' spit Only a dead-brave poet would mention roses but yes, heaven will be those too, and we will turn thrice and smell that which we smelt in the womb — warm blood and love. As that dog, replete with his master's tang, knows meat and bliss were always one. Lord A of Yarralumla Subtle as a ventriloquist he clacks and grins, both garish doll and the handy one. Catholic, he lags far behind the Pope, and he loves Royals like Lamingtons. He scrapes hairy knees to old money; polishes intellectual silver with thick brassy tongue. He tries to be as blokey as a barbeque, but something is missing; something tilts — a drunk bike has shed its chain. He thumps along, but does he know that he is becoming transparent? The hammerhead is a jellyfish, and shirtfronts like a dying quail. Gottle of geer, he mouths, eager for approval, for mateship. But the beer is flat and the snags, the snags are burning to memory. Someone should give him a lap. Someone please give him a gong. Bike ride at night From above, all the bikes are moths, caught in the gentle web of paths, the illumination of street lamps a thrumming message — Is It wrong to write love into this night as I ride, drunk as a fly feasting on fruit sunned into alcohol by a brighter star? My small light shines through my basket, etching shadows thrown ahead, magnified, until I am caught in a net woven by reflection A tiny world of one, pushing on, energetic as any sun, legs churning me into the future spun butter-gold, just round the comer. And who could say that heroic journeys for fleece or conquest or glory, mean more than this trundle, plump short-legged jaunt This brief wobbling push, between one open door and another unseen? Please though, catch me when I fall, Let me fly through, soft, into your light; a trembling moth of perhaps feeling the pure-spun net's caress. A good end

ARTS AND CULTURE

Lord A of Yarralumla

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