Craig Cliff |
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Wellington Triptych
[i]
One-thirty: Midland Park
- the lunchers are all back in their boxes - our hero has finished his mandarins and his friend is just smoking
the pigeons are eating his ash --------------------- just like they
have for a
fortnight
“Evolution eh?”
Perhaps he’s right
There are no dead birds
............................................................... only
defiled ones
[ii]
upwards in a hungry whirlwind
out the window -- slurried
And great pages fly
leaves separating from flapping leaves
like seagulls in a child’s drawing
Below
a man with a swaddling eyepatch throws his hands up and out
– out-stretched palms the way you imagine stopping a train
–
only for the paper to continue
approaching but
never arrive
Our hero is nearly falling
out the window thesis out of reach
Our heroine is on a train – her progress is
inexorable
[iii]
a dead leaf is
dance-ing with a cigarette
butt
at the top of the e s c a l a t o r and our hero is no longer going to to use the hand-dryers on his pit-stains - - he will blow off his for moa with his friends and big nets and let the world know wonder once more
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Craig Cliff is a young (read: quarter-life crisis young) public servant. His workplace diversions include frequenting lit-blogs, setting fantasy football lineups and writing short bursts of escapist text inside of briefing notes. He is on borrowed time. Of ‘Wellington Triptych’, Cliff writes: “When I write about Wellington, birds appear—which sounds like a Carpenters song but isn’t. Rather than fight the content, I decided to fight the structure.” |
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