37. Artistic Bludger Beneath The Clothesline
i am a poet failing to grasp the importance of
money, the moon is impaled on the spokes,
stars hanging in the wire, my words mean
nothing to you, you who have worked in the
factory to buy the ornaments & have driven
the taxi to make the repayments, i dream all
night beneath the clothesline & in the
morning i write another poem, this is all i
want to do & all i want to be, linked to the
stars & sun that is above the backyards,
hanging over the suburbs, you know, 'here
you can work all your life & never own a
home & that's the way it goes,' i like to drift
beneath a clothesline on a mattress, the
artistic bludger, swept off the edge by
billowing sheets, towels flap up like birds on
a hurdy gurdy, the clothesline takes the wind
beneath it & tries to fly away, from this clean
cut suburb of matching quilts & apricot
walls, from my years of wasted words, the
rotation of singlets between myself & the sun |
