Jake GoetzFarming kelp for a reparative state to search for the source of extraction in expression while economies collapse over breakfast and Brecht isn’t here to Instagram his Weißwurst in the sands of Byron Bay where 5G conspiracies radiate foaming breakers into COVID tanks moaning like air being conditioned out the back of a Dan Murphy’s and the sexuality of machinery in its lust for extinctions that anti-creation search for bliss cum and oil warm and thick dropping onto the stomach of our anthropocentrism where we is a producer of I solutions jogging in city parks feeding the realisation that all fictions now can be refracted into facts as all frictions struggle to depict truth as an act listening now as a baby cries to Nepalese singing soothing the air above Sydney the morning like an ibis smudged so brown it’s as if it was used to sweep the chimney of a Victorian terrace where Tibetan flags hang above a sign that attempts to STOP COAL SEAM GAS and perhaps all one needs is a dream of the west as a mosquito on the earth’s arms seeing how much it can suck before being whacked and so to be a bird of thought edited by nothing but sun in the memory of Pleistocene ice melting revealing sandstone cliffs that form valleys of ironbark and eucalypt rivers that flood down escarpments to shape South Pacific estuaries and how all these ideas are just volcanic magma in the feet of water watching two magpies circle and descend dropping like an absence of rain into the shower’s bucket startling the hair clip of a dragonfly hanging from the memory of a bush of hair its bright red tail denser than any word-colour suggests dipping its tail in a clear forest pool cool on a 40 degree day as you lay back into a place where words are like kelp tossed beneath a wave sequestering carbon for a reparative state Winter song through the purple hue of dawn small clouds are thrown from the lungs of joggers upon church steps finding in their feet a choir that sings the ways in which we make meaning milk rhymed yet enjambed spawning across fields dissected by ideologies only to be re-united by snow's socialist approach to economics as cows that may as well chew through their own flesh watching how people defend everything a Glockenturm suggests the way sunburst drinks up the iced reflection of the Liban Quarry’s limestone pit excavated by 800 Polish Jews on the outskirts of Krakow or on a lone night in a Copenhagen bar listening to a drunk sing Billy Joel’s Piano Man is this what we mean when they speak of freedom? notes streaming off like rain against the window of a Berlin bus considering the Asr prayers of Moroccan memories like a shawl that wraps and hugs as a thought is nothing more than the passing of time drifting away from the centre language the intertwining of its fracture history in the continuity of teeth hearing fruit bats screech through the Shire’s gentrified twilight swimming in the warm beach of a coffee in a Wroclaw café outside a sparrow darts between trees while yellow elephants sit upon a fence undressing clouds with their trunks what they reveal is the revelation revelling in its own undoing i.e. that each person’s mental confinement summarises nothing but pink strippers whipping the dead meat of a colonial sheep standing at the Lidl check-out beside a man who stinks of piss and who with his last euros buys some beer in search of everything addiction can afford him a tram bell rings and a couple kiss laughing between bites of falafel walking cobble stoned streets crapped on by a history of horses and working class love their feet out of synch with the crow that picks the breadcrumbs in the gutter in the glasses a waitress clinks not thinking of how long the sun’s routinely made its visits anxious perhaps for each sensation she’s missed in saving money for experience perhaps shocked like the woman who looks into the eyes of her lover curious yet certain that fear teaches more than anything and doesn’t this make all the difference different to all the lines you’d thought were the same? take a long stretch of sand in a war torn dream drowned by an imagined Pacific or night rising like a wave as a group of alpha-males hold each other by the shoulders in the street howling verpiss dich into the illuminated windows of Brno city and to realise that all of them have cried themselves to sleep at least once in the dark of indecision in the dank of hostel bunks and that understanding means nothing more than to stand under something and look up to consider time in the long hour hand of Graz’s Uhrtum time in something no greater than yourself or to lose control maybe yet still be able to swallow and not throw up for how easy it is to give one's self to a long unfaltering surge confusing reason with years geography for tradition or a wash of shopfronts with being old and forgotten pissing and shitting language between layers of glass and cement where trees are ornate furnishings not the lungs we breathe from nor the woman who stands in the middle of Odeonsplatz and puts her teeth to a wurst while the sound of a phone leads her into another room a meme a god even for there are voices that lean in the wind and we fall to their singing like snow in the Tyrolean mountains only to feed the rivers in spring Jake Goetz lives by a drowned valley estuary on Gadigal land. He has published one book of poetry, meditations with passing water (Rabbit Poets Series).previous page     contents     next page
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Article 8
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