it is a blue night, excuse the cliché.
the valleys running below a slightly darker shade, more
thick.
I am living in an old stone cottage from the 1800’s
in a valley
I think only my landlord knows about. I hope to be here forever,
sans women.
there is an incessant winding up of their springs,
a thousand frogs in the dam
and
down the creek to the next dam, there is no stop.
when the moon rises it will only excite them more.
they are building themselves up,
they will become obscene.
I sense that the frogs can predict when their erotic moon
will arise.
from a distant paddock a bull screeches and hollers like the
beast it is.
the sound ricocheting
across the hillsides, back and forth, like a pinball.
when people eat fillet steak they don’t think they are
eating ‘horrid beast of the blue hills’.
my wine supply is getting low and I am shitty about this.
shitty at myself
for being so falsely pious at the bottle shop and only
buying
one measly bottle.
but tomorrow
I will be glad I didn’t do the old ‘finish a cask and put it
on my head
like a hat’,
and thinking things through and through like a mental
amateur,
conversations in my head getting away from me,
with people I haven’t seen in over twenty years
and
most likely will never see again.
ah, the blue air.
ah, my blue hands.
