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Sweet Bells Jangled George Anderson Thirroul NSW |
Sweet Bells Jangled A war scene: pneumatic drills & rivet guns suggesting combat. The ground swirling at 80 feet per second below. The sound of boots clanging on the metal ladder clings to me like hope as I ascend the scaffolding on George Street. The dots of scurrying business people like spiteful reminders on fridges, in Financial diaries, of past purposeful lives- ordered, unflinching; a ballooning world of betrayal, materialism, lust. Triggered to overwhelm. Here it comes again. Now. The Voice. Shouting, kicking at my door as I climb, temporarily muffled by the wail of nail hammers & the churning of drills. He asks, Why don’t you jump off you stupid clown? Why don’t you? YOU don’t have the fucken guts! I ignore him, it & clamber higher. Eight floor. Ninth floor. Here & there a smattering tongue of fragments of French poorly remembered: Je vais alley pour d’achete la viande; the breasts & face of a former lover superimposed. A bizarre scene in a mall in Armidale. Camped in a sleeping bag outside Woolworths. My brother Tony with a knife in his chest. The finding of truth in a grain of sand. Whatthehell are you doing up here? the worker asks. Drink cans & plastic bags strangling fish an epidemic of security grills child obesity meningococcal. What’s the matter, are you crazy? The sky falling at 80 feet per second around me George Anderson [Return to Psychopoetica home page] ©The contents of this page are copyright protected.
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