Matt's Writings in 1989


Shipwrecked Page 8 of blue-and-green Olympic brand 'tough one' exercise book.	The sweet smell of gas the violet evening evening evening; the dusk decays, the day's remains hang in the barbequeued air around the crematorium. Soft men and soft women hang from blonde balconies and telephone poles topple over into the grade's abyss and over this picture the symbolic apartment block stirs the air with its stubby fingers after clouds (like the meatpie in Catch Candy: in my form beneath the figs: only then men were men and the syllable of desire unfurls its terrible sails wooshing outside the fence on rubber keels, on the damp of gasoline). Now with cigarette and scotch like Takis Emmanuel in the early masterpiece of Paul Cox I shelter behind the pole not falling not me nor my sharp proselyte.
Untitled. Page 9 of blue-and-green Olympic brand 'tough one' exercise book.	The warm wind clean as a pin, a hot jamboree and a canoe. On the table the cheese has gone. I finished my needs and took it off to the kitchen table where it protested for being relegated to the social hothouse of the fridge. The Greek cheese is jealous and proud and its enemy, the cheddar, is the favourite although its almost dead and another block awaits; the scrap that's left is like Tyrone Power in Blood and Sand and so I am the femme fatale and will deign to digest a second slab of lactic solids.
At the cafe Lazarus. Page 10 of blue-and-green Olympic brand 'tough one' exercise book.	Across the table you see a face behind my shroud and you catch the glint of ivory where my eyes should be. Your mouth I take in; it permeates my entire and the ghasping breadth of the Rings of Saturn your eyes light up. Out here each mark and measure of your face is stuck in the void around and my solenoids snaps at fistfulls of laughter. But, perfect sphere, no dust settles. Truculent and soft and wan my company cherishes each frond of care waving from polyptic stars and on the field at battle's end over this sad body couched in shreds I pass the wand of solipsism and, elipsed, drift through rooms. I recite grey lines from the happy book of the dead.