Friday, October 22, 2004

gribb obs cadiz

When it all started, I was at the top of it, wasn't the one
I managed to put on. Cam'll down! Lella said, like it's
. Imagine. Scented until they found out, the perimeter
thistle wound, picked napoleons but ate the lot. A little jigger
frost felt like a cut jugular, ample time, no sores or cream.
Tabled with ice. Apple glut, bluntly approved, sent out
to halo effect, leisurely. Chimed in, white Cairo down, it cannot
compete, the hand that covered me, at Lella's trials
off Port Said. Abseiling the Marconi. Trellised lichen, battle
raw, potting on the sofa. The Goethe shot, wouldn't whistle,
doesn't care. Barely, but once, and wasn't the same,
capable of four. I am and your father! Lella said, that's two
for the transferase, pulping decision. Hang out
the waterloos. In Pippy Park, sieving blue norwegians, fine
slot tapestries; Rodney's kernel aims, mission statements,
marshals at breakfast. Was it? The man with the amber
jerkin, on file? Elusive allergies like drab flowers. Pithy
postponements, when she comes. Her tongue opens
its Malva capsule, worried with buds, flinty ceramics;
implants, tethered like workaholics to a picket-line.
I was bashful, and then some, but when the album
came out, Lella saw it at the baby pool, her knees high,
magnificent girl, apologetic to a T, not anal, kiss me,
you're David in the shower. The girl? A Bosporus
water taxi, the sooty cheque, unclasped in the piddly
drape of rain. Island footballers pitted them; scrambled
bubblers but chucked it in. We patted steely castanets,
massaged power-chords to a flat-line. Singed
carpet, dollops of washing, broad concepts, five dollars
and I'll do your ironing. It's the same'll tings Lella said.
An itchy shin, rubbed with spit and cumin, orange rind
ground into your palms numbs the strap. Bread knives
idle at the start, reflecting Van Eyck, mixing lip-balm. Under
marginal paths, carpentry bags, podiatry manuals, crisp
linen-water honeymoons in the camper. A rusty
fish-hook bookmarks the fourth chapter, baited-arches,
tackle-toes, fumbling with a nine-iron, but Crusoe
with a six. Ledgers flake, the balance grows, and it amounts
to slivers, sliced along the grain, cold sausage gloved
in a sawdust mariné. Being precisely, ever, wanted
a wide berth to that swagger, scooped in season, that's most.

Man, I still like the piddly drape of rain.

Here the rain eased up today for the wedding of Cathy Barry at Coogee's north head, by the Bali monument. She was a big girl at Brigos. Remember Tony Barry, her younger brother? He told me he took the kids to Disney Land --- and they don't remember anything. What's the point? Would a 3D ultrasound have helped?
Mum and Dad almost bought Anthony Barry's house(or his parents' really) on the corner of Brook and (forget) street. His Mum ran for the Coogee state seat as a Liberal (?) once, as I remember the wooden "Vote For" sign out the front. I was an altar boy with Anthony. He was an altar boy before anyone else became one - and he served at the altar when the school attended the acts of benediction (I think that's what it was). So he was like the ur-altar boy; the forerunner and original expert. The show horse for the whole primary school. He knew when to ring the bell - when to get the wine - he was also good at the incense. I could never get that stuff to burn.

Why weren't you an altar boy, Bern?
For my sins, I was. Still cradling the cruets, metaphorically at least. Baz now worships at the altar of the bourse. He's a stockbroker.
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