Only in a cyclonic Igloo
The pace of a heart beat
is Thump Thump
Thumpidity Thump,
the pace of two feet at war
is the sound thunder makes in the northern hills.
We row backwards to defeat time,
to stop the bung in our arse
being dislodged and sinking feelings
permeating the mantra of Kublai Khan;
frozen crosses signify the death
of religious ruminations, the last of the ever-hopeful.
The blue gums molt leaves in autumnal excellence,
the Bus with no wheels travels slower
than the walking women with pushchairs
and sparrows with inked grey wings;
Alaska is baked, the beaches disappear.
We fried Lobster because that's what they said to do,
the aftertaste like beef jerky dipped in chocolate,
the lady at the store said she once screwed Einstein,
she was about his age;
a movie on rerun runs out of (digital) film
just when the cowboy dismounts
and announces himself Governer of New Mexico;
in rows ten through seventeen,
children ask parents
why the law of the land is a hand gun
and the land with no law is a dustbowl.
The pace of a heart beat
is Thump Thump
Thumpidity Thump,
the pace of two feet at war
is the sound thunder makes in the northern hills.
We row backwards to defeat time,
to stop the bung in our arse
being dislodged and sinking feelings
permeating the mantra of Kublai Khan;
frozen crosses signify the death
of religious ruminations, the last of the ever-hopeful.
The blue gums molt leaves in autumnal excellence,
the Bus with no wheels travels slower
than the walking women with pushchairs
and sparrows with inked grey wings;
Alaska is baked, the beaches disappear.
We fried Lobster because that's what they said to do,
the aftertaste like beef jerky dipped in chocolate,
the lady at the store said she once screwed Einstein,
she was about his age;
a movie on rerun runs out of (digital) film
just when the cowboy dismounts
and announces himself Governer of New Mexico;
in rows ten through seventeen,
children ask parents
why the law of the land is a hand gun
and the land with no law is a dustbowl.
