8.vi.21
523
2.156
deep image
days stuck
(another lockdown lament for Melbourne)
and stare as into a pool
it is an age since shedwise
dust and the untouched valves
this was the year of my beginning
and now from rug looking up
child lost in it
for a little while this was the well
you had to imagine the whole village gathered
as in the case of three dimensions
teeth came and went
for a silver sixpence
I tore by
Zorro and Injuns suppose
far typewriter sat up like
fordigraph whiff
channels on the side – big knob!
much processional in there
who’d call these wasted hours?
fingerpainting, potato prints
mumps, measles, a puppy
Antarctica at times
Mavis Bramston appeared
grassy knoll, motorcade open top
Marilyn, the Beatles, tests
this is where the Kennedys died
Martin Luther King, Poseidon
it’s where the Vietnam War was every night
remember that map like the weather
markets rose and fell
my name’s Magooley
chime birds outside
down to the harbour
screen holds like a sky
and volume!
no one can think!
what’s yours?
buy cancer
never be undersold
beat, sweep as clean
for backache, rheumatic
and
you know you’re soaking in it ?!?!
Alfred Hitchcock presented
everyone cigarette, highball
seasons!
come now – heaters, fans
and this otherworldly pet
fed on coal
through valves
now inched in dust
and all to aether then and now
saw me taller
I could have crawled in once
some say still there
where do I stare?
whole worlds
many and many since fallen
one never saw how the day was taken
moment by moment
from the garden!
the book!
after the national anthem
far star
dimming
day broke here
late afternoon
and how long to warm up?
Dr Who had a box in here too
along somewhat similar lines
the vertical – the horizontal hold
and twiddle when it didn’t
change channels
and who knew?
I mean all the world in
remarkable really
that was what drew
a wildlife documentary
and to the rescue
songs
Ed Sullivan, the Stones
Countdown may have even begun here
did sometimes bash the sides to steady
(and more towards the end)
such was an age of casual violence
all kinds of brink back
it reflects me
always ask who’s there (?)
Tchaikovsky too
and Wodehouse Playhouse
it must have been me then now
and all alone
watching and watching
here and the forest of words between
what seemed like choice was nothing
small dose of acknowledged evil
I type into something similar today
no one would call meditation
though often absorbed
in some homes rationed
still wearing it
went for a Tosca
though never in Bata Scouts
someone might try to get attention
but you would be glued
here where the spoken chain took light
the possible was here, mocked all before
re-balancing …
once this was a hearth
piano for a while as well
but this was how the lacquer resolved
we were compelled by progress
caught breathless by some fact
heard it saw it here
a wascally wabbit, tales fractured
three little bops, Duck Dodgers – FIRST SEEN
HERE!
how could we ever have known they were
listening?
dependent on least whim
my favourite Martian, jinnee of the dream,
Samantha
horses and cars with souls!
we were the wind up
and the why
and somewhere in the seventies
in favour of Blaupunkt and colour, retired
imagine the tips full then
the dozers
all this cloth and ply
the polish and the solder
the wide brown under the bonnet
was it masonite?
not this!
changed rooms for viewing
into
the good
then a sort of standing shelf
where, all grown up, the kitchen
(more like pimply adolescent)
to garage penultimately
and decades there
till so you see
will we go there now?
by
valve
hold time
and the long way since
must have been rug under that’s gone
drowning in self, like Narcissus
a different green, pondmurk now
somehow the future was already here
must have been already in it
somehow I’m talking to you
I keep the box of lost light
in case, one day, you know
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