My Daylight Savings
It’s that time of year
but gardens continue.
Here I am with a bucket and hose
in the front yard
as another train passes to Seaford or Tonsley.
Even poets and friends sometimes pass here, in various directions:
Peter and Lisa, on bikes,
or today Ken strolls by, walking Pola
and she’s into the hedge
sniffing a dead bird, a bit of one.
Ken looks good, they’ve been
The EAF has some performance art happening:
“You should check it out. They
paid a lot of money for it.”
A garden is performance art
part conceptual, part organic.
You could see STC and Duchamp
arguing over the dying lawn:
“best grass in the best order”, “but grass
doesn’t interest me, here’s a suitcase”.
The bees don’t care, flowers are ready-mades always
for their not-so-secret ministry.
“All Nature seems at work.”
But I’m erasing aphids with my thumb
and ants with my boots
or spilling precious water onto the path.
I am not a good soul even on Sunday.
Another killer, just like the birds
cute and useless like a lot of exotics.
They say it’s cold in Sydney, and raining.
Well, bully for them.
We water by the bucketload
and the dams dry up
under high blue skies.
But, nope, here’s the clouds again
that covered up much of the eclipse last night,
the plum tree rains down
its mellow fruitfulness
its dark red leaves – it’s a turning.
We perform tasks
turn back clocks, the wind
moves things around.
We move things around.
Does anyone really know what time it is?
It all sounds like paper
mixing language with
sounds of Sunday.
Gábor Szabó mixes his
60s gipsy pop jazz through
my tinny speakers
reminding me of clothes
I could never wear
attitudes I somehow never believed.
And though it’s Easter, the chocolate’s gone
so has the blood moon
and the air’s lost its heat.
Yusuf Lateef’s flute sounds as if
it’s got it right
airy performance, a kind
of dance, fingers across bamboo
conceptual bamboo, but also organic
improvising but in tune
and in time with
so many things.
You arrive with blank prescriptions
loaves, green papers, popcorn
You cling like all colonials
to the enigma of lawns and fences
You crash across salt and pepper shakers
cheesecake, fake wood panelling, bitter crumpled dark
You growl into corridors, into tiny impossible spaces
of sway, of hollows, of souvenirs, you’re in two places at once
You run up against these things, breaking plain truth
harsh, nasty, as tired, hurt as the rest
You contort between flashes of flight
wide awake, shaking
You crunch, you become
you heave, you panic, you start to consider
You start to weep
in the middle of the road
Animals try to hide from the gaze, and the light
People run around with nets and syringes
The voiceovers mean things are hidden
The filming is secretive
It seems important and inhumane
Everything hurts — so, maybe that’s the case
Things are not so much objects
Maybe they will simplify or die
Besides, what breath creates light each day
On what surfaces does the wind blow
There’s mist over the trees
There’s no comfort, as if there ever was
But I still have fur and skin
which seems painful, pretentious and fabulously stupid