SAM LANGER- POEMS WRITTEN SUNDAY 8TH SEPTEMBER 2013

a priceless pus was nicked
you start a child
then a stone
a child’s thoughts
who they wanted to be
served accordingly
puke in a suit, slime in a tie
there is a connection
*
demonstrators
mess & calm
a chair with its back to me
a seat, a sitting opportunity
the libs picked up 17 beds
I cut a false figure here
a stranger, a pile of clothes
just another one
*
awake to his one review
his one thesis
this had to change
he didnt mind it about himself
in bed with the abbotts
*
“they” came in “here”
took the white macbook Annette gave me
as payment for proofreading last year
oops, theft as payment
for the editing of time?
doesnt sound that likely
a footprint on the toilet tank
suggests entry through the bathroom window
the shadow edge of a footprint
as though just in time, barely
ghosting plastic surface reality
I want to say placard surface
I cannot help feeling
a sense of no
these physiques pains mild
a mosquito floats up, across
bounces so like a paper ash
with volition, delicately
battering away the wall
a sense of no, a forced parallel
by time’s too-rigid structure, they
stole the government, or continue
to keep it,in a way hence
Rudd’s pleasure, having not lost
anything but his days
the secure great balance
wobbling along further
driven by controlled work
–call this my idiot pass
I could’ve pressed my face
to that macbook, & thought it
the hard flakjacket, leatherette, of the leftmost
daughter of Abbott, but to her
she is on the right, but
an unrelated theft took the opportunity
away, leaving time alone
reading back clueless as to how
taking the stage with a red clipboard
then dealt with by the after sentences
but I left it on the floor
in the clear mess
fumbled books, camera gone
voting bizarrely i don’t want to be
startled by these jug-heads, yokes,
I want to be laconically responsive
but if impossible then fulminative
lightning against their calm prick faces
then I think of generation
fly-back-and-forth,
in unstymied commute gut
it is okay, keep eating vegetables
riding a bike like the prime minister
there is a vague perspective of theft
discounted as irrelevant to today’s politics
& your whimsy will not do
the pure lyricism of a Clive Palmer
lookalike is more Manly
Clive Palmyra, Palamon, purse evil
Abbott or Paladin
sure is in flames today, that country
which else, the miner’s tail
the minority government’s tale
the miners’ tailings of the masters
& they also masters, the little
pricks in their uniforms
hooting for unmitigable defeat
the boats floating on the roads of the future
the out of control feeling one sometimes
gets is perfectly understandable, a rare
reasonable response to real life
as it is lived, deeply felt
one wishes to sink into things
outrun the cuts, to forests
in a paradigm of ghostly fitness
evade oneself into a room in the landscape
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