I think this is it... the rewrite draft of Barbecue, or should it be,
Bar-B-Q (I suspect I like this more?) part two; and this is the text I
wish to publish along with the still lifes and landscapes (if they are
to happen by some miracle....   http://abdevpoetics.blogspot.com/ 




The Bar-B-Q: part two 


A small bird squeaks and a dog urinates
on a fence under a runt river gum

slabs of red beef on a dead gum tree stump
in the old butcher's shop

shade heavy afternoon humidity
thundering summer storm frighten dog barks

hard winds stripping
leaves into brown air

low pressure system amplified noise
across interstate highways

unconvincing faded roadside signs
being struck by hail the size of oranges

brittle sun scorched synthetic rope gives way
in smelling ozone air lightening strikes

and for a limited time he takes part
	in the game being played
	and winter comes

frozen black tomato vines burnt with frost
growing vegetables out of season

an illness keeps him alive
without being able to pay for his life

a game to play with a high fire
military jets to keep secret

all part of a deliberately laid plan
goes out with paid staff searching

registering any advantage; observe advantage
tracking back in time symmetric repeats
histories of distinct racial difference
mobilising new armies to take sides

again, in drug war smuggling over borders
wealth, drugs, consumptive capital
weapons go south, machine pistol guns
what understanding is needed, scale
delivers a distorted first world

what claims are scientific fact	
in a supermarket aisle
buyers beware, read content, with care.

Legal interpretation;
every model will tell a truth
my oath is on this; he says
crime rates always going up.

Take him to a forbidden city first class
spring flowers droop in summer heat
	past quick winter

contained in a gift of extremes growing
to come apart all over interacting like
	a large living city

exchanging only ideas
welcome to the city state variety 
fruit flavours packed from the top
with a tight imported sweetness


	*		*		*


Deep wrinkles make aging images across a room
with financial institution's slogan claims
the man most likely to disappoint in sight
	battle, a flash, new territories.

A rare occasion he turns to his maker's claim
	the most rare hand made silver
	both made in the same time
		says a lover's mark

Making a tense rescue with no good news to pass on
the crisis is getting worse come back to him and do
		something later this week

Unknown murky milky substances leak outside
taking three cameras to scan what he does
containing him slowly without challenge.


	*		*		*


Bonsai Australian native trees tied to
		an aesthetic cage:

Turquoise grey reaching for the limits, 
training a juvenile trunk, compliant
as a youth not yet able to grow a beard

Semi arid nutrient depleted half dead
trees slowly moving hope for better soil
and dead trees quintessentially Australian
said a queen's photographer out on the tiles
under tables in purple onion late night bars

Would you be upset as this happens to you
an impertinent question, how annoying
in cold lecture theatre initiation sites
written lyric graffiti blue pen ink, digging
into old black varnish hard wood bench seats

Memories of adolescent first loves
while they last, dementia takes them away
leaves this shivering heart feeling, forget
his name. Was it really like this, that
question, again; the garden needs weeding.



	*		*		*



There are rumours in the pipeline poison gas
has got away and all emergency services
in divisions, have come to evacuate
bodies and souls from a risk too great
that he is not to be permitted to stay
they come wearing gas masks inside airtight
white plastic suits; he is tied into a mask
and is promptly wheeled out, they broke
through his back door, always the easiest
they tell him across electronic laughs

Two metre thick reinforced concrete walls
up against earth's old sandstone
ten floors below ground under a building
fifty two levels high, so highly stressed
it will take off like a rocket launched
to space without making a hole; we are told.

He wonders what the book bound poets are saying
on polished hard pine shelves alone in the cold poison night

	and alone will they barricade
	against looters who enter
	broken back door homes?

He needs a cold shower to reset his head, trip-switch needs
of electronic brains making intelligent chatter, human
minds saying little else.

	On arrival at the site
	mode set indicators go blank
	feedback failure in a hole
	lost in ground, no earth

				Must he say it all again?