#622 - is Sydney still there? ... a line is a trail is a tune

 

15.ix.21

622

2.257

is Sydney still there?

 

I notice that when we get close to Sydney

(it’s just an idea, mind you)

some lights come on

there’s a bit of a tilt

thicker atmosphere

I myself begin to rotate and revolve

revive my steampunk side

 

getting nearer still to Old Sydney Town

(passing the Central Coast say)

how thick the roads with maniac

 

through Preston’s gully

more road than remembered

a Hawkesbury or more

(kooris call an exorcist

… too late … too late)

 

how narrow the lanes to steer

 

in the stood still city of riches

more by the day

 

lovely sandstone shelf

once forest was

 

even empty streets

heads spun

necks all rubber

 

the millions!

hi ho hi ho

(work’s essential to this kind)

 

a little twitch

a stutter

the ballet of the tribes begins

 

eat me drink me

all of that

I’m much smaller now

 

 

a line is a trail is a tune

 

a friend went down the path of depiction

risk of ending in a world

 

but I held off the trial of sense

we each of us spilt out of frame

 

combination destiny took to tide

breeze took open the door then

 

eternity patch here there

a line is a trail is a tune

 

there’s no word without

but every story tells

 

how we are coming here

how we are nearly home

 

a friend of mine

as if there were a world to show

 

went down with her mirror when

everyone knows you have to imagine

 

and follow your otherwise schnoz

wet in the ink, paint too

 

dreamt as far as

some days I thought with loud bold strokes

 

and come to cure all self

however this friend of mine

 

day job steady doppelganger

deaf pleading off to wrack

 

had a friend spoke

only the words that were given

 

had a friend who believed in the sky

I knew a certain body

 

and had my holidays there

(take this anyway you will)

 

I had an invisible friend as well

one on each shoulder in fact

 

friend of a friend you could say

and why not (?)

 

knew a chimney took up smoking

later the struggle to give it away

 

[this is all, mind you, part of another poem

hasn’t been written yet]

 

I knew a tree and possum traveller

grew higher than hands and wings

 

up with the stars and still

that tree went for a mystery

 

you know how it goes

steady the head with all acquaintance

 

this is how it means to be minded

the way back is never as far

 

it’s not a chosen people

it’s not a promised land

 

a line is a trail is a tune

there’s no word without

 

but every story tells

how we are coming here

 

how we are nearly home