Lunar Brogue: 2010

...is not afraid of midlife. His crisis began at 21 anyway. And his life since these difficult years? It has been a slow, inexorable transfiguration. He has become a cliche, a self-parody, a man without spiritual bearings other than those that glance at him, and then ignore him, in the timber aisle at Bunnings.

A man whose infinite ineffectualness and heavily impregnated inner
urban martyrdom make him a popular salve for middle class insecurity.

A man who would love to be addicted once more to cigarettes and dishonest hotel stories, so that his teeth might regain thier colour and his eyes their pathetic glaze.

A man who would crash his friend's motorbike and suffer Good 'Ol Boy exploitation without justice or sense. Who would fly to the tropical North to recite meaningless poetry to his father and his father's would-be.

Minestra di verdura

She said he walked like a drunk, his legs were plaited
And left

Alone with him, he spoke like a hammer, his hands were thumping
He sang like a pipe, his throat smoked
He laughed like minestra di verdura!
And then left

Saturday, May 01, 2010

At First Gloomily

Glutenous somnolence
Tendril drags falling away from night's spine
Neither now nor then
Our accumulated algal drifting
Toward the whir of day