American Creek: E II

Leaves that flicker at the years / returning the reserve to jungle …

Leaves that flicker at the years
returning the reserve to jungle;
the owls too return, & headlights
prowl the perimeters of suburban
lawns. Letting out a yearn I hit
the back fence with my hind legs,
shovelling out an escape hatch to
nowhere. Nothing but the tree dark


before me, maniacal, seething …
I’ll hitch a ride on the moon owl
cloaked in thunder, dream the day
into being. When I wake there below
the stairs, I could almost name it,
leave the vaguest impressions but
see it there, still: a shape that
was neither hers nor his. Untheirs.

The first of a now-suburban dead.
Raising my grimy jawline to the
gathering fields of sky, my face
a trail line now for exploratory
ants, silent worms. No torchlights
now; no soil or restless movement
no trees rolling over in bed – just
the long low whistle of the works.

With nobody watching him he softly
sets the frequency of his hum tone.
Nobody sees nor knows where he’s
come from; possessed of no tracers,
no ice-breaking pet fakers, no dog
I’d mess with prowling the street.
Broadcasting my funeral in repeat;
from a spot of ground filled with

leaves, glass. I chomp on weeds in
between decomposing & meeting
with the elements. I’m training my
last instincts as species decease,
preserving here some glimmers of
white noise I’d been exposed to at
some stage in the distant past …
meanwhile I’m living as normal; in

my sleep bears make me wear things
I’d rather not dwell on. I am made
to wear lipstick and wear a tie. At
least they never tried to make me
smoke. All over now, those little
games in the sun, the fake terrain.
Even my little brain I can make out
the differences between shadow & sun

that keeps out the sound of a Creek.
Rising now to run its fingers round
the suburb, lying like an old bath in
someone else’s coastal backyard days,
dressed as pirates & running round
like Vikings about to sack the remains
of some abstract fort – staked out by
cricket stumps and skipping ropes;

the Wet candle all by its little self.
Not high in a garret somewhere but
low, lower than the frequencies you
can hear, just before you disappear.
Golden day glows prowl the house’s
perimeter just for show. The glacial
progress of the ivy across the wall in
every other respect like a rainbow.


About the author

Davey Dreamnation (1972–?) is an Australalian musician, vocalist, pirate and record-label owner who now lives 'in the third person'.

View his full biography.

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