gingatao

An Appeal to Reverse Fate

The dog is dogged in chasing pigeons, his three-legged ziggedy zag a Sack Posset perfection of tongue-waggling slobberised smiling. When I was a youngster the jacaranda’s purple bruise signalled the arrival of November, exam time and a momentary sobriety. Now, because of all the boojwah cattle cars farting fumes they have bloomed and it is just October.

So here am I, in the park, with pepperment tea and a notebook, this one here where these words are, scrawling a strange sensation, like a singularity in my centre with the dog an electron planet wildly rotating sending silly birds whirring. I want to give the pigeons names but my sense of humour is so strangely inward, exclusive to various recluses, I would most probably get sued.

I must start submitting actual poems to magazines again instead of parodies in assumed names. I mean, I must stop pretending that I have submitted parodies to every Australian Literary journal (a hoax hoax) and start actually attempting to contribute to our (ahem) vibrant and honourable literary culture again. First of all though, I must brush these crushed purple blooms from my stolen heffalump pyjamas, gather that mad beast in and see if I can persuade Huehuecoyotl to remain still enough to sketch.