Tim Wright


February

The broken bricks appeared friable, as if explosive, or to be crushed up and smoked. Money appeared in the hand, wonderful and indestructible, the colour of gelatinous lollies and craft paper, eucalypt bark after rain. The nitrile glove was shucked: bottom of the ocean. Days were pressed out of their moulds like ice cubes. The decades chirred. Colour of blood in a black and white film, gust of wind blows the papers off the calendar, the femme fatale collapses. All of it, possibly, broken with a laugh, a mood cut-off switch. The collective hum, sounding now from the other side of the street, people clicking their fingers sinisterly. We circled more deeply into the scrub. A tongue of dune sand, the wind giving way and anchoring. The Old Melbourne, made of older marri, sequestered diagonal beams. One floated on largely regardless, spartan leafing out of the fingers, pushing the body away from. The plane of saying what was crossed the meridian of those tremors emanating from the apparent wish to deny knowledge. Every blast of an hour having passed. Wash water through and collect rich drainings. The sunken room, tacked onto the back of, walking like horses. Which seemed to lead to a sweet nulle part; a whole city going home at the same time it seemed and was. What all of this apparent order relied on was the being borne away and shoring up of the briefly and no longer wanted. Causes and reasons burn. Tongue, lip of a gutter, differently coloured pieces of glass pushed into the mortar, like a spray of surf off a rock. The gradual thickening of the suburbs. Citizens walking fast down roads past shopfronts, making, as if reluctantly, room for each other to pass.

Lights dim: ibis-ish, Tim Wright riffs, drifts, is grittily lisping; tiny fistfights frisk, ringing things in. Night trills.

 
 

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