24 February 2007 01:00:00 - 25 February 2007 22:27:55
The computer is switched on; the ions are flowing,
watching, in the breeze of the fan, night-time going,
the mug that is empty now lay on the table.
The piano is waiting as if in despair,
whilst the patio light throws out the night air,
the picture of Lotte girl lay on the table.
It’s five minutes past one in the high morning here,
the post-monsoon breeze bringing nothing to cheer,
the petite Chinese flower pot lay on the table.
I drink to help the night-time array,
a cold Dressner beer and a Guinness away,
the woman of commerce bag lay on the table
In the early-bit morning of unseeing sleep,
out in the rear, the tight tangerines weep,
the Gardenia breakfast bread lay on the table.
By the front room cold flooring, I watch and reflect,
the sofa is peering as if to inspect
the Interlace Group bags that lay on the table.
The Lottes girl in a tight skirt wants to try
to get me to notice her beauty and thigh,
the high protein calendar lay on the table.
The television was now turning in for the night,
the carport arena was engaged in white light,
the flowering of batik work lay on the table.
The bulbul of warble and mock-combat rest,
the warm, unremitting night close to their breast,
the crop of the Post Office lay on the table.
But they think I don’t know that they’re watching me.
