Part 8 (1/2)
Sun s.h.i.+nes metallic off Footscray and out across Westgate bridge. Silver & green office blocks rise from a dun plain. Superman, bearing a stash of old money darts over the dockside and the hidden sea home to Melbourne.
The thought of you adds weight to new memory sad as lamplight on rain sodden guttering. Sadder still is the Romantic lapsed to obscenity, the swine tides that clog the spirit.
Again, I drive my centre to the eye of your hurricane. Remember how the senses wrangled, anger like a vicious exorcism of betrayals not worded?
To run is to hide is to freely admit the hidden hurt. Volscian woman, we flung our fire at each other heavy as fists.
The old man sits in the park feeding pigeons; like his memories, they are grey-blue and flutter about him.
My memory of you from any perspective falls along the flat face of this earth.
No lamp lit up our consciousness, only the blade figured the light, Psyche.
The funeral of the sea sings the Italian doc.u.mentary. The worlds rotting oil-fleet blanks out the Mediterranean from the French coast to the Bay of Naples. Six hundred burning black candles turn crude the Arab night and Red Adair pots another well. Oil Magnates!
Corporate Cowboys! Have you built your little s.h.i.+p of death, O have you?
And there in the deep the Great Underwater Colonialist, Jacques Cousteau, laments the dark night of the sea, his eyes are the colour of basalt.
Today we have part-time cloud & the hours work at it cruel as barbed wire drawn across the face of the moon.
What then is this other? It is the shadow personality, evil comes from the power of evil. It is the third presence. O Romance of the World.
X
Crack of whips in substations and the horizon lights up like a Lucas/Spielberg movie. Tonight toward Blacktown helicopters make astrological moves sideways. Earlier, a trailblazer made one Caesarean cut along the western sky. The 6 Oclock news brought with it race riots & rapes, an eclipse of weather which threatened the following day, the unsteady peace of tomorrow.
60 million hectares of saliferous planet, and a new desert creeps toward Central Europe. There is salt in the wound of the earth. Closer now comes the yearly pilgrimage with candle-flame of lava to light up Mt. Fuji in ninety- nine turns of the track. Refuse of light and all that glitters. As the Stealth Bomber slides East night advances swift-footed over the Empire, over the roll-call of the New World Order.
Watch the southern sky shuffle the South China sea & galaxies thick as krill. j.a.panese fis.h.i.+ng boats stack the decks with amputated fins by the tonne.
Sharks loll dumb as torpedoes on waters flenched in blood. The Yugoslav Republics grow tired and another 25 frames of tankfire roll off the screens from Croatia. Pain is the visible urge to memory, says the Anchorperson.
Radio KGB hits the airwaves with a global countdown from Ta.s.s and Reuter & AAP. Back in Ontario, escalators whisper to the underground shopping plazas and the Gallic snows fall loudest on Quebec.
Frost at midnight lies as silent as The American Dream, and all along the border night moves. This train dont run no more this train. Yo! This train dont run no more and Canadas cut in half, calls David Suzuki. Hush now, the cyber-freaks sleep. Soundlessly, the Hubble telescope gears its focus.