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Graham Lindsayonline works |
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Juxtaposed windows Father Lapsely composes Sunday's sermon walking ill onto blinding mudflats, out to where the water is sky-coloured, sky the colour of the hills seen through mist his entrails scrawled on a tiny white flag of paper. Recovering a little from blowjob thoughts, he thinks he sees the land the people once wondered about and cared for despite its seeming indifference who now find it easier to say Blow you Jack, I'm okay. Damn it, he curses how about some light? Turn up the light you stingy blighter, this estuary is like a morgue! And adds, despairing, I think therefore I am a dimwit. Gray against grey, gulls treadle the mud to bring shellfish up. The pink hulk of a retired speedboat rests a hip on koru-patterned sand. Pink-breasted, pink-legged, a heron rises like a cripple. Th-th-that's more like it, he stammers then turning notes the children behind picture windows ablaze with sunset genuflecting before cathode heroes.
© Graham Lindsay |
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