Fuck, The

Fuck,
The suckers
Of the wire triangular
Shower-soap-holder
Keep coming off
The wall!
 
But,
Hard pressing
The fuckers against the
Wall doesn’t work, only
Pressing for a
Long time
 
Such
That pressure
Builds up slowly and
Surely it seems so
Well back to
The showering.
 
‘Course,
There’s the fear
That the fucker will fall
Again any minute, but no
It just stays
There. Fuck!

Home Pome In The Morning

On my mind in the morning
Was the fact that I learned
That it wasn’t that
(That) the tap was much tighter
After the plumber came –
Than that it was
That my habit was still
To turn the knob tighter
As it used to have been
When it was stiff to turn
Before the plumber had been –
And so in an aha
I didn’t turn it off tight
And it just sat soft and easy
And no water doth run! –
And that it was like meeting
Myself in the past and the present
And learning that I’ve learned
And I can just learn again
About staying in the present
Instead of turning off the tap
Too tightly as I used to do
Back in the day
Before the plumber come
And I was a younger man

 

The Clothesline

The rotary clothesline had stood
In a moat of water and mud
Ever since the day it was delivered
On the ute, when the wire lines had quivered
Like motion lines of helicopter blades
Threatening to lift the car above the traffic lanes,
White flags on the metal bar tips waving a fond farewell.

Ever since then it had not quite landed.
On a concrete stub of an island it was stranded
While the cavity of the surrounding earth
Had filled up with rain.

The installation job was left unfinished
And the act of hanging out washing was diminished
By the water trough hazard, as in getting too close
To a drain.

Symbolically, the notion of cleanliness was incongruous
With this marriage of soil and unsoiled, a congress
Of mud-filled depths and fresh sunlit air
Arranged.

Til a year later the hole was filled.
The clamourous cry of opposites was stilled,
And the worms slept gently under a conventional-looking line.
Hanging out the washing was a safer task.
The cool wet clothes, and the eyelids basking
In the warmth of reaching up to feel the sun.

And though the pole in truth was no shorter,
Only less exposed at the base –  in some quarter
Of heaven the angels dimmed the lights again.
For before the clothesline had been an axis mundi,
A Tree of Life, Yggdrasil, not just for Sunday
Washing day, but a place betwixt earth and heaven.

The serpents slipped away from the chthonian moat.
A plastic basket was placed where a castle had stood.
The rod of light sent no messages to the starry skies above.
No boots lapped the edge of a clift by the waters.
No horizons were scanned, no king’s ransom or daughters
To rescue, no moats to cross, no quests for love.

No  fear in reaching skyward  with branching arms.
No helicopters in heaven in a day-dreaming balm.
The stretch between earth and the angel’s roosts was ended.

Ten minutes it takes to peg out a load of washing.
I’m thinking ahead not dreaming, and my shoes not sloshing.

25th September 2014