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These are not the westerly winds

 

 

These are not the westerly winds,

heat and bulls on heat and heated trains sucked into the distance. These are not the westerly winds that bring memories of warm cheap wine smuggled into the Brisbane showgrounds and cowgirls from elsewhere. Where do they sleep, these cowgirls? Above the cows, like
a Gurdjieff cure for TB, but I don’t think these cowgirls are anywhere near the literary splendour of Katherine Mansfield. But she followed Gurdjieff until the cows came home, but they never came home and she died.

These are not the westerly winds,

there is nothing sweet on those breezes. I begin to see cowboys everywhere, in every boy who says he’s a man. There are some men I want to strangle til their eyes pop and I can suck them out like some vengeful Goddess of the Aztecs. I want to feel their performance of words dance under my fingers. I want to feel their sincerity, really feel that what they utter comes from their hearts and not from their bag of tricks. Tricky dick.  I want to cause divisions. I want them to be so visible that you and I are both divided, cut unevenly with blunt scissors  and re-stitched back together. We look horrible but our appearances no longer tell a lie. I want to sit still with words, to make you sit still with nothing…for a while. I want to take your precious symbols and make you give birth to them. Even if it’s through your asshole. You are going to give birth. Yeah, you are going to push it. push it, push it real good. I wish you a safe delivery.
These are not the westerly winds,

Above me  I wish it so below.  I want the winds to blow this house away. I want the winds to blow this town away. I want them to blow your stupid moped away. I want the winds to lift the bitumen off the roads. How likely is that? It’s not very likely, but maybe there will be a big ice-age coming soon and the streets will freeze and all our lovely houses will go back to the forests. We can stop looking at how much we’ve aged, how much we’ve loved. The clock-face of time, the limp phallus of the Suncorp Clock will be unplugged. Time will be a slipstream we can float upon. Time will be the seedlings in the earth sprouting, the third luxurious edit on your poem, the time it takes to dry apples.  I want these sweet winds that promise respite, with that overpowering jasmine on the wind, to seduce me a little with hope, to remove me from the linear momentum I have fallen into. If you have a heart I hope it opens up before it’s taken away. Or if it is taken away then I hope they are swept up on this wind, this breeze that will not stop and I hope it reaches the palaces I dream to visit, like Alaska, and South America, and Iceland.

 

 

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