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Electric Rococo Recollections of Jam Tree Gully from Afar.

 From the upper southeast window the cross on the church is
stark-light-globes mark its outline, contrast the twilit harbour. It
wants more out of symmetry than is on offer.
 Tomorrow, the Guru is going over to Jam Tree Gully to clear the gutters
of dead, dry leaves. They congest without style, embellish with urge,
the pragmatism of making a growth medium: in summer easterlies' red
dust falls as the true rain of modernity and tumbles into the leafy bed
already set in aluminum conduits. If fire comes, a stray ember or spark
will make rocket fuel of this process.
No ember or spark has come to ignite dry-leaf coffins; No ember or spark
has come to make heat that can melt steel; No ember or spark has come to
leave soft beds of grey ash; No ember or spark has come to the gutters,
though it might; No ember or spark has come but you will clear leaves in
case.
Deadzone is where dead trees lose their shadows, fail to flower shade.
All that brocade of less-than-light vanquished, all design leveled out.
As pat as a hot bed of ash, the terror of boot-prints, the flickers of
flame that will burnt he dead again and again.
But don't think fear has ground art out of the picture: down the
road a house done up like Fred and Wilma Flintstone's: a pebbledash
of pride, a B-52s/Koons in-joke with raised flowerpots for alien
species, raised beyond the grinding teeth of kangaroos.
With double-glazed windows sealed to the "beautiful view,"
breathing stale, trapped air to escape the cascades of coal smoke, I
make memories of what hasn't happened far away at Jam Tree Gully.
Anxiety governs the use of proper nouns, though I frequently listened to
Rococo composers, their dancing feet tacky with Baroque foundations.
Francois Couperin tinkled galante in the background (I first heard Mum
play the harpsichord when I was too young to picture the rural as
quaint). Playful in the background. That "who gives a damn while
the peasants starve" music. As if I could latch on to the
fertilisation image: an earth hungry for the starving. Here, the famine
pits, and there, plasterwork repainted brightly in colonial houses,
those standouts.
From the upper southeast window the cross on the church is
stark-light-globes mark its outline, contrast the twilit harbour. It
wants more out of symmetry than is on offer.
It's obvious to think of Fragonard's The Swing
at times like these: those layers of garment. A swing from a tree at Jam
Tree Gully would bring down the branch it hung from: termites working
strength illusory. And even if it swung for a while, you'd need to
wear camouflage lest shooters grew attracted to the moving target.
Hear "Les lis naissans" ... Hear "Les Barricades
Mysterieusis" ... Hear the clarity of electricity, the warmth of
synapses, the global chatter: grey wagtail, golden whistler, maybe the
tek tek in the cirques of La Reunion ...
As my baroque infrastructure collapses into glimpses, the ironies of
being attacked by a neighbour who is angry with the effete, the
exquisite channels of death--gullies- formed by angry runoff sluicing
the hillside, the filigree of spray downhilling from Shire "weed
prevention," neighbours flourishing, those sweet rococo
rememberings, the cuts of the harpsichord; ooze, pout, flourish, flare,
flutter, festoon, leisure, pleasure ... warmth. The blood-warmth of
paradox, listening through light of sun on hills, decadence of feet up
on the verandah, fire in the belly of the world.
No ember or spark has come to ignite dry-leaf coffins; No ember or spark
has come to make heat that can melt steel; No ember or spark has come to
leave soft beds of grey ash; No ember or spark has come to the gutters,
though it might; NO ember or spark has come but you will clear leaves in
case.
Consider the radioactive spill at Ranger uranium mine in Kakadu:
"mud, water, ore and acid."
Consider praising the mining giant, Rio Tino! Roll it over again:
"mud, water, ore and acid" (got that from a mining
journo's report). Mantra it: "mud, water, ore and acid."
Consider the photo Mum sent yesterday of the bloody and inflamed sunset
beside Walwalinj--replete with burnt bush, houses, cars, animals.
Consider the photos she sent of magpies stepping into a bowl of cold
water placed on the verandah, of the cold-blooded
flocking to the cool--bungurras drinking bungurras dunking one foot at a
time, a rococo gesture in forty-six centigrade (in the shade) heat.
Consider leaves in the gutter at Jam Tree Gully. Consider the Guru
wanting to cut away saplings whose leaning sheds volatile eucalyptus
leaves into the repositories.
Consider the frequency of storms where I am now, where I am with Tracy
and Tim and locals who smart at the weather, the Atlantic churning it
up-- by its own premature senility.
Consider Wallace Stevens swinging anchorless, beheaded: polite, insular,
interior, almost comfortable.
Consider the coal smoke rolling out onto sea, settling as film,
stretching across water to Atomic France, home of the Rococo and
gorgeous reactors.
No ember or spark has come to ignite dry-leaf coffins; No ember or spark
has come to make heat that can melt steel; No ember or spark has come to
leave soft beds of grey ash; No ember or spark has come to the gutters,
though it might; NO ember or spark has come but you will clear leaves in
case.
From the upper southeast window the cross on the church is stark--
light-globes mark its outline, contrast the twilit harbour. It wants
more out of symmetry than is on offer. 
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Author:Kinsella, John (Australian writer)
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2014
Words:997
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