Friday, 7 January 2011

Soft Rocks Thinking

Parallelograms, Parallelograms, escalators and palindromes,

Rolling skins and rolling waves.

You can see the tide lines like orange brown wrinkles on the face,

Sun drenched and compressed by the sky’s frown.

We’ve finally arrived, and there’s an iron shark marooned on a rock.

Until we drive back through the blue paint, avoiding starfish lamplights,

We will only attempt to see some sort of unified motion emerge

from the biting coastline with salt and irony.

Carc-har-hin-us Amb-ly-rhyn-chos

It’s in some respects an imitation of our body’s being, yearning

To be liquid again.

We’ll find this fertile poetry in a requiem

Hidden beneath the vertical blend of backgrounds.

600 million years of fluorescent eyes and ravenous sea rocks

bound and gift wrapped in the absence of gravity.

A lipstick of the ocean, twisted for dusty mouths.

Ideas float in the tank with unseen splendour,

Like jelly fish, they have no nervous system

and breathe in the thoughts of dead poets,

a simplistic aesthetic for the forgetfully blind.

Arriving back home, full of rejuvenated zest like Indo-Pacific garden eels,

Tripping on the dinosaur images erected in our aquariums, gliding swords,

Introverted, we felt cultured.

We bought fish and chips and sat down to watch Finding Nemo.

Remember how we pressed the green button to sway the limpets

Pointlessly from side to side,

Until we realised

That humans were merely rocks that play host to ideas.

The fish made a mockery of us,

With cylinders, cylinders, lighter tops and key rings.

Three pounds, and it’s all yours.

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