Monuments to Hubris #1-3

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#1 MONA Roma

having paid your two bob fare
be sure to strike the correct pose
(what would be the correct pose for this?)
be sure to gawp at the fibreglass cow
that is/is not you,
whisper secrets in the ear of the sheep
who you see is metaphor or something or,
like, nothing, or a metaphor
for nothing or something,
and wonder if getting the joke is the pose
to take or not
((interobang here))

#2 MONA

Mt Wellington sits,
a fist at the back of your
               departing,
the Derwent welcomes you,
mermaids whip silver through water
brushed by wind and wait to flay
dreams gone overboard,

here a bridge fell interogatively,
there, some place to do with empire,
to your right 40,000 year old ghosts
(you imagine)
watch you go,
to your left earth is turned zinc
in the alchemical belly of an octopus pinned
to shore by smokestacks and colonial flags
that wave as well as any other,

here where nothing is possible,
where rust walls rise a monument
to deferral of the end,

and we come ashore,
shutters clicking,
entirely unlike an army of white.

#3 spiky bridge

You may have come through hail and sleet
(praise be to climate control),
brandishing your maps,
guided by digital gestures,
marvelling at landscape and
the remnants of territory,
having struck the correct pose
at Spiky Bridge and imagined
convict bones ground into the mortar
but when the wind hit you side on
at the crossing and the wheel kicked
in your hands conspiring with the slick road
to throw the hired van in a just sufficient slide
to remind you not to lose yourself in metaphor,
that moment…
            is the closest you will get
to finding yourself, a wreck of
twitching meat and metal,
lowing at the bottom of the gully
while Major de Gillern barked
and whipped the convict boys above
and built a road across your bones.

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