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Antepodean Antics
Extracts by M.T.C. Cronin

'Hayden's Serenade' by Suchoon Mo
 
Art: 'bad shape' by Peter Schwartz

'bad shape' by Peter Schwartz

A TICKET TO TRILCE
[Extracts]

 

            LXX

    I am characteristic strictly applied. The metaphor before it grows into the cliché of an accepted language.

    Everytime I’m out I create a soul, creepmouse, silent
and shrinking and half of death. The learned Lord Ordinary
I call my soul.

    Inside its fate the cuckoo duck falls in urban love, monstrably in the demi-jour first mentioned my demon lowers the world
to half-mast.
Interruptible sky. Sky broken by the doubts of my love.
Sky acquiescing to the weasel-cat of Funktionlust.
Make naked the underlying rocks that beckon us all.

    Guard as much as possible the detail by which you are forfeited to death and known as the dead. Apply your tongue only to the attractive hearth or to its act of floating.

    Do not tremble for universal love but only for the little wave that buoys you to the next tract. Tremble like an animal that is tired and it runs.

 

            LXXI

    Our afterbirth consists almost entirely
of insecticides and rodenticides.

    We settle, ourselves, at the bottom. The earth,
we tunnel her right. Glass. Glassss. Party party.
Daily daily daily. Seduce us with belief.
Our sect is axe-shaped for pleasure.

    Se defendendo. In our eye is seated
our fear and among it all the threats
of the subject shifting blocks.
Relics are no longer like phantom limbs.
They’re between the ad breaks.
Transplants, transconfusions, the knitting of human hair.

    Party on lobotomy!
The deadline is flatline.
Apathy has been injected with what ‘ups’ it
without altering its state.
However, however… there are those
that won’t stop thinking though now are asked
to also consider this on remote.

 

            LXXIII

    No bone!
How is life to triumph without it?
A bone made out of brown paper –
mEAgRe & hEARty (soup) floods the workshop.

    But even rebels do deals. The life
is a spiral challenged by the galaxies’ corkscrew
into its transformation. Tinty.
                I give myself goats.
I know all their lines. “Yes I didint” “No you did”??
But they pretend against absurdity
and due to the appeal of experts paint only giant images.

    Genius means throwing away:
those sad lions that can be kept as pets
are just terrible cartoons.

 

            LXXIV

    A warning…
A door as high as two doors.

    A mirror with its own reflection.
A sound hidden in the world,
the sleeping family around you,
terrifying heartbeats and sighs
that you might cease to listen for.
The place always foreign
because you were born into it.
‘Hello’ never enough – louder?!

    A realization. A warning.
You are miserable! You laugh!
Food is good – tiny pimientos grilled in garlic and oil
and every year more pigment fading
from your skin and lines branching out
as if trees rising like smoke
– blow it away –
your life

in this small tall white room in Madrid.

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last update: November 19, 2008