I’m at Caulfield
falling further into the rye.
Faster by the second.
Right at the fringes
machines hum
and hazy colonnades bloom through.
The labyrinth outside doesn’t have
nascents or carousels.
Rather hemlocks and phoney pigeons strewn
in shallow, grey waterways.
There’s no middle ground;
just overwhelming quicksand and skyscrapers.
Punch-drunk, with its Greek figure
brimming with cheap spirits,
the labyrinth continues, calculated like always.
The ink of lousy principles
inevitably seeps through the stone walls
and the songs get dumber than last year’s songs.
But all that’s
North of Caulfield—inside, the rye’s feathery touch
kisses me reasonably insane.
I mustn’t leave Caulfield
for people outside always clap for
the wrong things.
