a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Poems By Tim Gadd

 

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.

 

 

Copyright 2006  Powerscore Productions