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Famous Reporter # 34
 

 

 

BOB MORROW

             My Words

I want language that’s
aurora borealis, spotlights, footlights,
blood-red velvet hung with pearls,
tobacco-flavoured leather armchairs,
gardenias, onions, Peking duck,
Pavarotti starring at La Scala.
 
I want my words to
bounce like pinballs, ping and clang,
cut sharp and clean as Ockham’s Razor,
tear newspaper from fish and chips,
play tuba on the beach at six a.m.,
roar Grand Final MCG.
 
But what I mostly get
is block of word
placed carefully
on block of word,
trimmed square,
dressed smooth,
securely mortared,
ready for the moss.

 

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