Thank you for your missing.
As I devowelled its celebration of things mutual, I swept for this new sordidality, my flies running years.
In the so kin, I erased contents now memorial, not act jewel. Permit this reply's length as it art Thames two recon suture arced cerebra Tate yon.
I add that your missing sit on a steam plume at rest in a maquette of your country lifestyle, a sweat school in a private library vaulted beside the concrete cube tomb of Cesare Battisti admired by the highest mountain in Trento and surrounded by birdsong.
I do not sleep:
Methods from Europe have No Australian curses fearless, Which proves at least The inferno and duplicitous Cuisine, you know. I do not exaggerate. The Catholic cringe, like youth Again, shocks the canine Which keeps following me. This is good so long as the canine Never suffers a hex by the turncoat. Turncoat threatens me With execution. I can't tell you which is better, Except that the perception that Evil is certain is learned, Whereas alpine living is suspicious. Your thousand children who Believe the passionate love of Language is poetry is to be expected – where could they possibly have Come from otherwise? From otherwise Is fine, I should add, and sends her Regards.
O K, I am astronomy sometimes,
Which is a confusing
Idaho accent, but lucrative,
And if I quote Dorn in this accent
The audio visual will laugh
And the constant local will groan,
But that is because
The Making of Americans remains
Mostly unread. Girt rouge stone
Is welcome retort to the cannon,
Don't you think?
It's tempting never to pick up
The telephone booth again
As I slump here in a velvet lounge
With spritz and at midday,
Garda over there, the sun exciting
The water clock into the throb,
How I woke up this third time today.
That is the turbulence,
And why I adore where we are,
Which is here and not here
– your pleasure dome,
My curses recursive.
I realise this beg is full of inventions.
Last night's return dreamt a Ferris
Wheel, which is in many parts.
The triumphal mausoleum as cube
Joins the beg's caca phone.
I wonder what your thousand children
Are doing today. Surfing?
Because that is
The first thing Europeans think
Australians do, even those with
Reluctant and disputatious
Relations to a fantasy of the Union,
Like the welting truncheon televised,
For example. They're right.
Surfing is the first thing I think to do,
Though I am in fact a curse,
Incorporeal and unbalanced,
And so their work on me is done.
Mausoleum as sanatorium,
Mouse as sanity. Europe smiles.
Memory, keep your stasis solidly
And without smiling.
I have a right to my ecstasy.