hi,
don't post here much but enjoy the company. I like to listen here, knowing
even less of poetries in New Zealand and Australia than i might of anywhere
that's more familiar about this house. One of the few books i have kept
returning to from move to move over the past years is 'Continuum' by Allen
Curnow. It has moments of ludic music all his own. Something all too rare,
an ear with wit and grit. Best of all, from the evidence in that book alone
Allen was getting better and better, bringing hope to us all. Lovely poet.
Thanks and
go well
love and love
cris
ps hope nobody would mind my typing this section from the wonderful 'Moro
Assassinato' (quite untypical subjects in some respects but the care and
the construction compelling and . . o, resonant right now . .)
'An Urban Guerilla'
the real stress came from life in the group . . .we were
caught up in a game that to the present day I still don't fully
see through - MICHAEL BAUMANN, 'MOST SOUGHT AFTER'
GERMAN TERRORIST
It was a feather of paint
in a corner of the window,
a thread hanging from the hem
of the curtain, it was
the transistor standing on the corner
of the fridge, the switches
on the transistor, the way they were placed
in a dead design, it was where
the table stood, it was the label
Grappa Julia on the bottle
not quite half empty,
the faces that came and went,
the seven of us comrades
like the days of the week repeating
themselves, themselves,
it was cleaning your gun ten times
a day, taking time
washing your cock, no love
lost, aimlessly fondling
the things that faster than fingers,
trigger friggers, gunsuckers,
People said, Andreas Baader
'had an almost sexual relationship
with pistols', his favourite fuck
was a Heckler & Koch. Not that sex
wasn't free for all and in all
possible styles, but not all of us
or any of us all of the time -
while agreeing, in principle,
that any combination of abcdefg
encoded orgasm, X being any
given number - got our sums right.
Dust thickened on the mirror,
the once gay playmate,
on the dildo in the drawer,
dust on the file of newspapers;
silence dusty as death
on the radio, nobody can hear
the police dragging their feet;
sometimes we squabbled, once
could have shot one another
in the dusty time, we had to be
terrible news, or die.
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