1788 c/o Oscar Schwartz





        
        you are still the dinosaur
        of influence on alien waters

i see no content
        
        besides the weather

        it is raining parrots

i see an intruder

        she is a tiny painter
        firing blue parrots and
        burnt trees at

        mad australia

        this method is new

        inferring a dinosaur
        from one tooth

        inferring an artwork
        from one intruder

i see someone riding a dog
        
        is it a lizard

        perhaps a butterfly trying

        dutifully

        to be graceless and forget
        his vocabulary

i see a figure on the roof

        below her a ladder

        below that a window

        below that a city lane

i see a young

        europe in his favourite
        dress

        the one
        encrusted with history        

        that shows off his bloated
        
        sympathy
        
        for the underdog

        look at europe
        a mere eclectic
        a minor one at that

i see something in his hands

        it is a little bit of paint
        bloated with history

        it is dripping everywhere

        i take a sip and pass out

i see sunset

        oh gosh and it has all the
        profusion of a child's world

i see a boy and a puppy
        napping in the bush
        
        i don't search backwards for the
        value of childhood

        i just listen and see what i see

i see the blind end of europe's gut
        in my hands when i paint

i see australian infants
        swarming the canvass
        
        mother darlink
        i have joined a progressive school
        far away
        
        where gesture is free
        and calligraphy
        incoherent

        my tongue is white
        i'm lapping it up
        in warrandyte

        every night
        i fall asleep and wake up

        the main character
        stuck in a landscape
        like a clumsy

        organic monster

i see straight through
        
        his

        head

i see his kangaroo-like talents

i see his strong sense of purpose

        i can't tell if i'm riding my
        horse forwards or backwards

        i can't reckon if me rifle is pointed
        at meself or the sky

        i'm stuck
        in your armour

        the billycan concept
        assiduously
        imitated

        frozen over australia in mid-fall
        with snapshot precision

        rescued from the golden
        mile
        
        of an angry decade