Sunday, February 18, 2007

Picnic At Hanging Rock

We wanted to take the mountain,
So, like the destiny of the picnic,
On the hanging rock,
We wore our white dresses,
Flicked our hair back,
Tresses surmounted by none in beauty,
We climbed,
Climbed, rotten cucumbers in our bags,
Sweaty and wet,
Flaccid and green.

The sun,
A torture.

Mesmerised by dead doe eyes,
And the hot wrinkled backs of iguana,
We stifled and sank.

Disappearing into the original heat,
The white wheaty grass,
And the light of sun-stroke,
Burning.

Mystery,
Mystery,
Where am I now?
What have I become?

Slightly shorn, white dress translucent,
I am mist,
Morning dust,
Orange rolled back eyes,
Spotted deer being ripped from behind.

They come from all sides,
All sides now.

I am hiding in brush.
White fear-eyes,
Dots of green that hold you,
Do not look for me at hanging rock,
I am swollen;
red dots of blood are my punctum now.

2 comments:

Cocaine Jesus said...

dazzling dazzle daz

LentenStuffe said...

Lots of mixed metaphors here -- a veritable Molotov cocktail of them. Lazy poetics ... a pity.