Obviously we go for c.
You are the beast up on blocks in
Claremont
that sits behind me in restaurants
calling the thin air a cunt,
that curls up Liverpool St. like a grey
whisp
mumbling 'thriftshop'.
You blow stacks out of the public
library
and there are snakes in your sleeping
bag so you shot your father.
You are drinks. I know. You go to
planets.
There are days when you just have to
make boomerang phone calls.
You ride around Russia on a pushbike,
drinking apple brandy
and you get fat every summer
Like the Eider Duck
You're making more noise than I am put
together.
You know what Scrooge really said,
what it means when the gate creaks,
the truth about the weather report,
and your thoughts have become your
enemies.
I catch you looking at me from different
eyes
Every now and then we bump into each
other.
Sometimes you're in my friends,
making them say curious things.
You give them the gift.
They can't return it.
Tim Gadd is
a well-known and widely avoided
electro-magnetic anomaly in southern
Tasmania. He built the first mud-brick
helicopter, has a fetish for anything
telescopic, obstructed the Suez Canal,
commissioned the giant statue of an
idiot which they found in Tonga, sucked
marmalade off the Chinese embassy in
Singapore, emerged from a glacier in
Greenland after
some 40,000 years, was observed mating
with a Bedouin, inserts molybdenum
strips in his shirt sleeves, illegally
amputated several limbs in Helsinki,
carefully weighs any sandwich, and was
the only person to wear a chastity belt
on The Concorde.
He likes zinc. |
