Mary-Jane Duffy
feels like the shortest straw
Where’s that Mighty Mighty bar
person with the tattoos who always
jokes about a horse and slides me a beer?
I search the room for answers
but when I look back it’s gone.
What about the long face two-faced
lost face loose face moon face change
face. I can’t look at you the same way.
And I shouldn’t use Mighty Mighty in a poem
because now it’s gone and I was advised
things that are gone are gone.
I loved Mighty Mighty with its wooden staircase
to red velvet curtains and random musical
events. The night Amos played in his kimono
or Stef Animal synthesised songs or the accordion
band or or or or anything with a doorstep
toasted sandwich while we shouted at each
other in the name of conversation.
Later we just shouted.
Then the Australian poet came to town
with her crowd. I’d heard and then there
she was from the coal edge knife face,
the be if, what all, the ring road shopping
mall of Australian. It made me think, what
am I doing?
No don’t answer. Let’s just say
extensive research but insufficient scrutiny
of the paradigm. A maximum of surface
activity on the face of it. Underneath
well I hadn’t thought to look that way
too scary Lady. Then I read that’s where
to hide the treasure. Duh. The cave
you fear to enter. The place.
Such fucking serenity I want to cry
and the huge apricot moon bobs
like a nipple, then a pom-pom
at the top of Mt Victoria. Met by
a festoon of blinking, smoothing,
flicking lights on buildings, in trees,
in the park. People I don’t know.
Winter I don’t know. Oh, I say
as I watch the colours change. Oh.
