This will hurt me...

Things are looking up at the silo apartments. Salamanca Place, Hobart. January 2012. Rain rain go away. Seriously. Piss off. Go on. Now! Corona , Paul Celan Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk: then time returns to the shell. In the mirror it's Sunday, in dream there is room for sleeping, our mouths speak the truth. My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one: we look at each other, we exchange dark words, we love each other like poppy and recollection, we sleep like wine in the conches, like the sea in the moon's blood ray. We stand by the window embracing, and people look up from the street: it is time they knew! It is time the stone made an effort to flower, time unrest had a beating heart. It is time it were time. It is time.

Somebody isn't paying attention. Expensive apartment block, Wapping. Hobart, October 2010. I cannot speak for you, but my whole family and I find that time spent browsing the brochures one of life’s joys. Oh what joy can be had in casting witty and urbane bon mots about things that we will never want or need! The casual ease with which the mountains of catalogues can be SNIP SNIP SNIPPED! away in dedicated training sessions with the scissors. Indeed, as a very small fellow (still in the rolling phase), Henry used to EAT the junk mail. If I remember it correct, the Harvey Norman furniture (vintage ’07) was his favourite. Whatever the case, the complex above may well not accept junk mail, but it’s certainly getting it .