Wrangling – Joel Ephraims

Northern Bowl, Corrimal

Dredge of days.
Constricting squares.

My mother a somnolent whale
Dining in her own mother’s scorpion cage.

The squares of my childhood.
Heated and cooled.
Cooled and heated.

Schools of sea life varied.
Neanderthal, predatory, clown, urchin.
The darting programmes of my youth.

Windows to fit the scenery.
Rhododendrons all up the observatory drive’s left side.
There are so many here
Whose smoke deplores me
Assembled as it is
In its rigidity of lines.
Blueprints of the sun slumped
Like bowling ball cloths in greasy electric chutes
Under the glow of MTV clips and score boards.
Kid’s shoes encrypting ultra-white stars under ultra-violet lighting.
They keep slopping them over.
I would like to walk with you.

A quantum nightingale
Lies curled in its technology
While an ice age boots up at its feet.
The fresh disembowelment
Of just reaching what seems truth.

Strangling shards
Of men and women’s
Pedestrian crucifixion.
Dry wood turned umbilical
Becoming celebrated thorn.

The eclipse of my dream-wife’s head
Is a mad shark’s origami.
And there am I.
Bowling shoed.
Encircled by Prospero’s
Radioactive waste.
His infantile multiplying shadows.
Reading Roland Barthes on Roland Barthes.
Dark, empowered, alone.