Sunday, October 09, 2005

anglican sundays

Sunday so slow in the suburbs. Churchmice are hibernating. The world is elsewhere. Outside the oppressive heat of Summer come early to Brisbane. Where are all the people? "I'm an anthropologist" says the man in Scorsese's Boxcar Bertha. She is two dollars a touch and ten below the waistline. The anthropologist has put away his pencil.

Time for doughy words:

Sometimes, abundantly clear to me
I’m intensely afraid of bread
And no earthly rationality
Will conquer this floury dread
I dream my hands get sucked in machines
And fingers become individual slices
I am a victim of the Slasher in the Rye
And other complex baking devices
A piper pied to its overwhelming perfume
Its freshness awakens the beast
Those sourdough moments annihilate me
A hopeless prisoner of yeast
I savagely attack with a butterknife
And burn it to the stake as toast
Freshly blazed hearts beat fresh for revenge
Seven seeds for a grain hole ghost
But they cannot murder my edible cravings
Rats will uncover a trail of crumbs
They’ll take the bread from out of my mouth
and loaf about in unleavened slums

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