Poem in Three Lies
the fat man tells a lie or a series of lies. this means
nothing changes on the Gold Coast Motorrail.
maximum utilization holidaying is the state
in which James Bond breaks world records, wears
dark sunglasses. & the sun comes sitting
on the treasures that we break and would
guard the impersonal: oh idiocy your child
speaks of the coldest beer, fat because the gas
valve is closest to the tube (we go insane
at high altitudes the same way pigeons flutter in mines).
But I don’t and remember Double E Hill &
scattering lithium for four hundred miles in
. . . one week later, under the benevolent
acrobatics of a UFO, to pick them up.
machines now work the odyssey & no one
is oppressed in a reasonably absurd mythology.
battle a southerly, buster, and sear in the boat
like a Berber: today you will die or laugh
if the outboard breaks down or is it dehydration
first? And I have heard stories
from far-away cities, of a heatwave in Melbourne
& Adelaide, how train wheels melt into the tracks &
eggs cook on the pavement. Then we are happy
before a mangrove because 1) the water is so blue
to swim in, 2) relationships are light or dark
but always small from here and 3) who
would spend a day hunting jellyfish?