Tim Wright


Do not lick lid


Experience is the lazy equivalent they don’t teach you,
or won’t. How the squished model plane gets renovated
or reading becomes a metaphor for artful youth:
a failed beehive, the days not spent
lustruously combing backyards for lost farthings,
unopened cans of Kalgoorlie Bitter,

A thinned down set of golf clubs, the coastal
variety. Wound down the window to yell something.
Anything. That’s what tamed zebras are for,
riding around on – look, there’s one with its casing removed,
ecstatic rus in urbe, sullen roadkill. We greet each other
with mild complaints about the city we live in.




Occur


Marion Squelette’s the brainchild of them,
on public holidays her wheezy dioramas
float over Glasgow reserves, peering in
on protestant lunches: worse than murder.
You know that we could glide to Bomaderry
from here, the globe’s a phrenological die, cheap

Vinegary meat, and the letters home of brainwashed
surfers: it’s probably colder than you think,
Australian. The van door explodes. After this
there’s a long time where nothing happens
at all. Parliament stays awake, massaging itself.
The coloured birds preen, then shuffle to market.



Tim Wright has a blog at http://swimswam.wordpress.com.
 
 
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