Queuing for the step feed, footstep slides onto steel grooves, clunk music. Our illusion of ascent is perpetuated, perpetuated. Moving stare cases hold the left rail, seamless screen readers, loose change managers. Tourists with trunk-bags heave on-board the obstacle course of ease. Don’t Walk, Walk. Right-siders tip-toe sole groves to the mezzanine, unless daydreamers stop the flow, or an arrogant standabout doesn’t care less, affronted by excuse me politeness. Out-of-towners learn procedure, dressed in their February best. An informal feeling resumes as the top approaches, we stationaries testing for the step off, our childhood fear of being sucked under, transitory.
Wednesday, 21 February 2018
Tuesday, 20 February 2018
The Tasmanian Tiger is not a cat, a dog; is not a football team or brand of beer; is not a vintage image from lengths of film; is not a book, a myth, a dream. The Tasmanian Tiger’s not a fire burning bright, a tooth, a paw, claw, tapering hairline, spine; is not an opera, an heirloom teacup. The Tiger’s not tiger DNA, or lion; not a lampshade, not a hat for a five iron; not paradox, pathos; not a stripe, a type February spotters spot; not a breath, growl, splash in the bush; is not female, male; is not.
Monday, 19 February 2018
Grammarians spot the comma that found its way into the wrong gap. Their exclamation marks are unforgiving. Semi-colons can be breathless: wait till you hear this! Colons forewarn of the facts. Thanks be for the full-stop, dashes just don’t cut it. Though poets are sensitive. Is this full-stop angry, ironic? They would dispense with them, believing poetry’s like making love: please don’t stop. Ellipsis keeps things private, elides too much information. Lawyers avoid the ambiguous slash and tendentious quote-mark; they decide what governs what. February again, school’s in, learning anew when to judge where to make one long sentence two.