Pam Brown

Closed on Mondays

too nice & when you leave everything is white noise, no traffic, no music, no muffle, just thick air whirring greyness leaks into the afternoon, a dirty kind of day kids are rolling down a mound of irradiated tilth the world's assembled curatariat is queueing unhappily for their passes in light drizzle perdido's on eastside & I'm trying ballerina moves on the fibre mat, preceding biceps curls with pitiful one kilogram weights a tiny plastic 'T' snipped from a price tag, caught in the mat is there any news from Mars that's better than here?                                * latest is R.Mutt's a meme it was when you said " say 'thanks Marcel' "                                * death's announced to a quick declivity (joke) of upload, list & link — scrolling, the final ritual mourners weeping, for themselves, no ghost in the crematorium machine                                * like Georges Perec wrote — Nothing is happening, in fact every single thing's a tourist destination & everything's available to everyone taking phone photos of the brickworks stacks from the back seat on saturday night gawking at the mud caked on cars drifting on the flood plain                                * time experienced as a perpetual rush to the latest in new o no it's Monday it's closed & you reveal a dour scepticism of pop culture but I'd give it another chance following my dorky polestar, relentlessly discursive                                * open the cider 'thanks Marcel'                                * so you want to write in a cave & take your source material with you?                                * searching all over for the house where it's quiet because Wallace Stevens says it is                                * a vase of droopy roses fine dust covering a tower of expended nivea cream jars                                * & when I arrive there's a manuscript, poems, new to me, open for reading the first pages have draft numbers — Draft #1 Draft #2 — at the top before anything else the rims around my eyes feel tired the empty room purrs its scope I imagine a well-polished furniture voice trying nonchalance, the sheets of typing called "my stuff "                                * it's coming along                                * stretch out now, a woven plastic lounge muscle & bone grind shoulder bone grind warm your dead feet beneath the baobab tree                                * thin transparent oil slowly leaks from the barrel of the souvenir pen, the plastic historical figure no longer slides along the mini city backdrop, he's stuck at the bottom of the scene                                * mid april & the xmas wreath is still pinned to the front door of the neighbour who died on boxing day

Pam Brown has published many books, most recently a booklet of six poems, More than a feuilleton (Little Esther Books, 2012), and Home by Dark (Shearsman, 2013) She edited Fifty-one contemporary poets from Australia for Jacket2 where she is an associate editor. She lives in Sydney.
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