i am the observer
i like to watch and think about it
i recycle experience into a poem
now i dont know where i begin
and this poem ends
against a white wall in the warm afternoon
decided fact and fiction are not 2 opposites
oh they overlap and overlap again
weave in and out of each other
what is a lie
what is a blog
what is a poem
what is a diary
in my kitchen im somewhere exotic
everyones gone out and i see the palm trees sway outside
nico comes on my shuffle droning on subaudibly
its hot and windy out there
i seek refuge in my solitude
my work speaks for itself
my hands convey only fractioned stories
by the sea the children are bathing bathing bathing
the gulls wheel n circle and scream above the wind
i feel im somewhere wild like south america
i feel like im on an island in the antilles
i feel like this cruel day has got something on me
my skin is dry
i sit in my cut off jeans typing in this heat
i get flashes of bondi a hundred years ago
scenes fly into my head quite unbidden
in hotel rooms ive never seen
in trains and at stations
drinking a beer with rog and molly and cyril and maude
double breasted suit n a hat
even on a hot day
where did my time go ? he asks me
child on the beach says how much time do i have ?
at a cafe : sit here for the time being
my therapist rings me up
are you fucking crazy?
aw, now youre making me mad, you sick shrink
youre outta time, olde bean
my beautician rings up
oh, youre ugly and olde
and i dont have the time
my mechanic rings up
it was the timing chain
my distant ancestors ring up
i cant understand them at all
my own personal demon rings up
i love it when youre angry he says
izzit hot enuff for ya? he smarmily asks with a smirk
its like all yer summers ‘ve come at once
meanwhile in my kitchen
the wind whips at all the pictures on the fridge
and petals of flowers detach and blow away
i never said i always said the truth
so everything is under review
a committee studying my technique
has been formed in a university some leagues hence
the professors want to cut me up
n see where the ideas come from
they say it cant be live
they say it cant be done
they said i evolved from a chemical miasma
struck by lightning
they said everything is randomly generated
they said god was just a big bang
they said stay off the grass and give way
meanwhile mecthilde remains unpainted
the debris accumulates
ants invade at the window ledges n edges
cockroaches drop in from outta town
is that the santa ana wind blowing out there?
the west must be baking
and even my imagination will not go there
instead i drift back to a private sea
i own this sea
every last drop now paid for
every fish labelled
ever chip identified
i try to keep people out
i send them away in a violent storm to drown
get your own sea i laugh as they go under
my friends said i was mad to buy a sea
why not wait for an ocean said rog and meg
a river would be more handy said basil and petunia
i’d have got two small lakes at that price said uncle rimbo
now thats strange
now theyre all down here under my umbrellas
walking on my pier
wearing handkies on their heads and baggy black bathers
dont daydream son ! says mother
no im fifty years in future and fifty years behind, mum
im in 2007
im in 1907
never 1957
oh youre all over the shop says rog and marg
sort the boy out les ! says auntie bea
spare the rod spoil the child says aunt li
whats wrong with me i say
everythings merging
everythings surging
you and dad are getting bigger and smaller
closer and further
just go to bed son says dad
youve been asked nicely now…
my autobiographer rings up
if you could just explain that bit…
anyway
the salt is sweating in the cellar
the sellers mark it
the wine curdles in the cask
and the whiskey is unalcoholic

meanwhile