she emerges from the bobble-
cordoned bathing area with
her pigtails wet & sticking out
like unicorn horns from the
back of her head – instantly
she’s a girl again the shining
happy memory of herself as
a strong swimmer dancer &
singer all at once like a sea
monkey queen reacting with
water swirled & sequined in
the jar for all to see – i’ve
been reading too much murakami
not to understand what does
drive the mind growing older
what cues the eye interprets
as “summer holiday”: such
tropes as chipped nail polish
tan lines of a different bikini
beneath the current pair
we stretched out legs on
a gaudy beach towel airport
novel open at a random page
& left there like the roof of
a swiss house on the rocks …
sometimes i forget that i can’t
speak japanese that this book
is just a translation irritating
in its americanisms like this
endless parade of paris hilton
stunt doubles along the beach
whose vacuous stares thankfully
are hidden from view by their
designer fly or wasp sunglasses
they couldn’t ever hold a candle
to this girl in pigtails emerging
like reality TV from the water
Tag: Abendland (page 7 of 12)
in vietnam of course we’d all
be considered peasants up to our
necks in sweat & sun cancers –
our tans coooked in a coconut
sauce the cannibal implications
of which i don’t care to explore
but here where a thousand & one
dalmations sizzle on stones with
all the intelligence of their
namesakes those spotted dogs
to a soundtrack of oasis tom
jones elton & george michael
singing don’t let the sun go down
on me (i should be so lucky)
that radiant far-off fireball sends
its death rays across space to
slowly fry us on the pebbled
beach – sunbeds like flaming
takitori grills an outdoor steak
house where we liberally apply
our SPF 0.5 marinades & then
cheerfully head home to the ovens
those airless apartments where we
gasp the incendiary nights away –
of course as an australian i’m in
no position to sneer or feel
superior – our melanoma-riddled
culture taught the world everything
it knows about “the beach” or so
we suppose having failed to grasp
the fact of rome of adriatic villas
preffering instead our abominable
drawls & watching mesmerised as
our children crawl towards their own
cancerous graves facing east towards
that old enemy the one true rising sun
i could murder a cigarette but
i’ll hold off for now – the time is
not right – & if i ignite here wow
who knows what might go up with me
there in the stratos, in the fear
the wind-up bird that’s growing old
constrained at every turn the signs
to left & right declaring rauchen
verboten – except in open spaces
where (we presume) one’s less liable
to hurts – subways & buses (natch)
are right out & on holidays well
it’s understandably hard to resist
sparking up – & yet you must for
after brennschluss well what then?
what ticket stubs from heaven will
you produce to clear your name?
of lines i’m careless still – we’ve plenty
left to fill – but breaths? & words?
how to enunciate these when your
lungs are still the cilia have ceased
their beat? without air bodies are
mere meat & we just the memories of
braveries dares – but still the trigger
impulse or this drunken affair sitting
on some backstep while smoke drifts
in the london air … they’ve struck
again or else it’s just a match –
or else the flash the bare stench of
frustration willing to ignore facts:
a puff of white smoke (we have a pope)
the parchment’s overgrown now
& flies no longer buzz down by
the hydro-electric facilities –
the bus route’s open for business
all along it twenty four hour
cafes spring up like pillboxes
some people speak of screams
in the night houses on fire &
some barely speak at all just a
fingerbone or shattered skull
whispers eloquent poems from a
time long past but still living
along winding trails known only
to animals & their shepherds
whil miniature obelisks mark
the cemeteries of the present
tentse & crosses send down rays
of pure conviction from the rock-
strewn hills & miraculous shrines
small wonder then that this boy on
the bus who thinks he has missed
his stop wakes up shrieking –
trying frantically to get out (who
knows what kind of bad dreams
he’s running from – we’ve seen it
all before we reassure him …
we know why his mouth opens
just there where the bones are
only so deep where the mosque
is a finger of warning now black
& every day dawns darker than
the previous night (in visegard
could you be flirting with me
(tiny periwinkle of a trip-hop
soundtrack? was that a smile
(pretty vacuous air bubble at the
bottom of this glass? come here
slide down my throat (abstract
freckle of a thirst quencher hobo
of the backwash past (reboot
the soda stream of our invisible
passions (poet of the cafe bar
menu (lifeguard of the frozen
bottle (remove yourself from
this moment (stolen password of my
internet identities (echo chamber
of my dream lover?s rehearsal
refill this loneliness (unbranded
apple flavoured liquid cinnamon
doughnut of a daydream (drink
me wearing sunglasses (crucial
sunshade of a postcard meeting
(intern of the hotel romancers
change my channel (aqua blue
but invisible shapeless nomad
of my early morning coffee
headband greeting (effervesce
my face (pigtail non-plussed
crude translation of a mineral
(once more mit gas (repeat mit
gas (i kiss your aerated body
(pump the spray (ignite the liquid
gel of your sihouetted trace in
the neverending launchings of
your emissary specks (in nitrous
legions (like your kin (the bends