Monday, October 8, 2007


And the God I had cursed,
turned on his charm when
on the weekend I stood on top
of that mountain; his country,
where kookaburras and blue tongues,
kept me company, and the publican
tells me the news of a lost word,
cast out of the dictionary, a literary
Lucifer. Gleek, she says, was a
gathering of musicians, a festival,
a joyous happening.

Gleek? Fantastic.
I vow not to let it die.

At night, the town of St Arnaud celebrates,
its lonely existence with fireworks, the end of The Show.
And I'm at home, out there, under the stars, covered in dirt.

24 hours later, I'm just me again.
In the city, riding an impulse, just another
prisoner of Too Instant, Too Easy, To You.

1 comment:

  1. I always thought you were too beautiful for the city. x