Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Cold Comfort

In skulking sculpture’s sculpted heart,
twin beds lie in growing dark.
You stop and stare,
half amazed –
beach volleyball, in Central Park?
You slip inside,
bare feet freed,
run rough cold sand
between antipodean toes
and dream of beaches
as strains of Powderfinger
slip softly from your lips.

Published in: on March 31, 2011 at 3:36 pm  Comments (4)  
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4 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Could just be the mania talking.

    But I vote 1: incredible piece of poetry by you, my friend.

    And timely too! I was talking with Adam and Jasmine just tonight, and Patrick and Nick (Lavan) and Katy the night before, and various other people in the past couple of weeks, and there have been many questions about when your toes will once again grace Antipodean sands once more. We miss you here in the loyal colonies.

    Anyway. Listen to Mr Tambourine Man – Bob Dylan original, not cover. Especially the last verse, in the context of this poem.

    Gnight man. See you soon.

    • Aw, shucks. I’m glad you like it. Personally, I don’t think it’s my best work, but if you like it, well, that’s just gravy.

      As for my return: I will return sometime soon. Most probably on a Wednesday.

  2. I was just going to say “we miss you too, man”, but lousy Jordan was both speedier and more articulate.

    • Yeah, he’s a total jerk like that.
      Anyway, how can you be sure this is about me missing you? Maybe I just really miss Australian sand. Sweet, sweet sand.

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