The tower was locked (its future being chained to the mast
like a breeze crossed with water from the past tense (that
immense wall of sound’s collage (its anagram eye, loveless
wireless) abstract but intact. Your childhood lies like party
lines populated by ghosts (some Fenian, others pulled from
the CSIRO telephone directory. The first email (never sent
cced Gaia but bounced. So it goes … (that manual exchange
inside a powerhouse (a museum exhibit etched in charcoal
rides the lightning (killing composers, developing in still-life.
Meanwhile, father’s crystal set gathers dust in a council tip.
The volume & tuning knobs had fallen off anyway, replaced
by one cent coins (also obsolescent. A smell it gave off when
‘live’ could trigger memories you never knew you had back
then, in the then when events unfolded in a logical fashion,
proceeding to their happy ending, or a lesson (the Masonic
Temple’s front yard littered with broken glass, dead weeds
(ah that crazy guy who ran screaming down the street (that
joke about Oddfellows isn’t so funny now, in his aftermath,
the grey dawn of dead things screwed into the sky (that line
of furrows from the ground wavered across his forehead, an
object of ridicule allowed one last laugh (surprised to end up
on someone’s thrown-away camera (your soul locked inside
a mangled memory chip (just an SD card away from rapture
(or was it repatriation? as shards of laughter escaped from
the abandoned sun memorial (a sound came out of the blue
sky like, as if from nowhere (a disembodied voice he thought
he’d heard on the antique television set describing Vietnam
was God (turned out it was the government
(calling him up.
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