gingatao

Unliking the hippos

The trees were aggregations of uncertain light, shade and air transpired from leaves to drift across the plains, congregations, and composed has three meanings. Beneath this tree I am composed.

I do not like the hippos, she says, peeling a mandarin. They are as though the earth spites itself. If you were wise as this fruit you would reshape the world and remove these unnecessary prepositions and conjunctions.

The natives, those not in exile in other words, are unbuilding the church. The walls are neatly stacked timber, the space once framed by windows has escaped into the sky. Occasionally they look over at us and laugh.

I am tired. If wishes were kisses she says taking my hand and indian cowboys rode tigers at night. In the evening the plane will appear on the horizon and then it will be said that all airs once composed have now transpired.

the sky is suddenly monet

begins beneath the solar plexus
wherein the sun is lurking

ripples building outward tumbling then
like joyous sky flower bouquets bursting
bouncing out and over Rageous dancing

envibratising atmosphere
setting dual merriments
to impossible imbobblements

a jigglement
a bubblement
of gigglings intoxicant

this fantastical array my dear
has turned the sky monet

a strange congregation (reformation)

Right on time, he says, gently placing his martini on the piano. We were starting to worry about you. Let me have a look.

The pianoplayer is naked, laying face down on the beach. He has a new tattoo that stretches right across his shoulders. It says, “Need and power are in inverse proportion.”

It is low tide and soldier crabs crunch under Mamu’s feet as he approaches. He is smiling.

Excellent, he says, adjusting the brim of his fedora. She will enjoy that one. Drop him in the corner, Mamu, and brush some of that soil from him before she arrives.

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she arrives.