2145301757_21e657c37d_z
Type
Poetry

Storm damage

the momento mori of a drowned world
      is untold inside out umbrellas,
a plague of logo-spangled spider bones
              webbed with shreds of nylon
gumming up a ruin-of-a-bridge’s pylon
      and
if you thought old Moses was a miracle
      baby, just you wait and see—
imagine the biblical intensity of a whole
              generation launched in eskies
on the deluge of a great river of denial.
                                              anyway,
there aren’t enough ex-prime ministers
           in the world to put on waders,
balance all our baggage on their heads,
      and move us to higher ground—
not in such ruddy conditions as these
    ( lol )
every fallen limb represents an incident
     report, an informational event
that sets processes branching up towers
          like acute pain to the dead letter
brain. the storm’s allusive rage in tatters
                                             resembles
the way a modern day nightmare feels
             in the dark for an open hatch
through which slurries of adult wisdom
      can be shit-shovelled back in time
to re-landscape backyards of childhood
     dreams with scary monster memes.

 

Image: Blue cascades / flickr

 

 

 

 

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Mitchell Welch is a writer and editor from Brisbane. He currently lives in Melbourne, where he works as a communications adviser in the not-for-profit sector.

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