The quiet orthodoxy of more
than just fitting in,
snug your cry, never to conquer your poverty
of dance

The quiet orthodoxy of distance
unpiercing and asymptotic
here, take this mug - it belongs to your
absent hand that had thieved it prior
and placed it there, right there, perfectly there

So we would not notice
as we
incapable as Xeno's Delphic fletcher
was of almost lying

yet almost, sickening as starchy lace

The quiet orthodoxy of the nod
rondos that attack knowingly that, yes
um *I know*,

of the Teuton strain of English
the triumphalist fox that knows its mirror
and no other foxes

The English invented Hellas via Prussia, with love
"We were at least polite, shoot and weep"
with laughter, here Mr Gervais,
meet Manuel, the Italian boxer,
The Great White Bob No-Hoper,
and um *I know*

The quite orthodoxy of correctness,
as a man's eyes are dirt and a woman's modesty
was shameless as car out of the car wash on a sunny day,
no-one got hurt, and the knight salutes
for the morality of rape, and flips it to conquering
and raping whilst his Queen will not see blood

Love of the forest, of magic families that killed for crowns,
and progeny only shone under the blood of the only royal oak,
the only royal oak that knew no other royal oaks and yes
um *I know*   no felling or poaching,

the fuckers flipped the bird

Here is a hat, here is a vizier, here is the fuckslap
of knightarcher on horseback

The interstitial infinities unthreaded, resewn intent
were palpable enough to hit silver targets
as factic as barked oak-tree common untouchable
to targets tiny, at the very most, time was hit.

triple 20 to win the game.

the quiet orthodoxy was boxed on the ear.


Grinning lazes of Xeno, vin funebre, rushing drunkenwards
homely writer, Ma Loafer, we call you Rowdy,
Raudhi, a poem for public and society,
not for the orthodoxy of verandahs
and a buzz of insect-cliche resonating through broken-record eucalypt-blue nights,
waking up to the summer buzz of insect-cliche
for Europe radiates no cicadas...

Where the call for quiet is the truth of home, and the street is home
to the quiet orthodox, priest of milk and wonders,
exhausted by danger's tolling,

The reverence of the Chamber has gone to Mendelssohn's pot,
oh we know, we Germans, of real things, idealism and the outformed egos,
resided in Mosman concerts of high off white ceilings, privilege of velvet armchairs
and artsy urinals of Potts Point that almost got there
where Xenos fletchers arrived in sailor suits more powerful than a sordid horselocation,
impressive as proximate cleavage

as the epistrophe's formulaic miracle goes
the Good One (must) outfox
-es his Casper David Friedrich morality,

The quiet orthodoxy of belonging,
smug, despicable, outrageously misrepresentative,

Fit's Law of the rainforest, creek and sands,
before all else,
it's why our coppers carry guns and our citizens do not...

It's an architect's world, and governmental errants on the side
of their Medicine families and Privilege is Right. Money makes
Knowledge, and suburban discursives are only equal to incarceration,
the blackyer, slopyer and stinkyer they are, mamma, thank you Dr. Doctoring.


the quiet orthodoxy of foul privileged dinner sets,
bohemian crystal that has never booned intoxication
In this fury at privileged poverty of dancing
this has made a space of furrows
for your clumsy Teutonic Knight hoofs,
Your horses dance better than the plum grammar mouth that embeds its own value
for hot wheat. So many Rinehardts and Smythesmiths should have wept in bone shame
for pristine bohemian crystal, unbroken, lest we touch it breaks

ekphrasia of seed and sex

never saw an intoxicated living room, a corrupted heirloom
homespinnings and woollyverses talk of bush and harbour
and the beach is left for pederasty and kinky coming of age

salvame by middens

salve regine by kelp not ghostgum or doublemint

the withdrawl to regionalism, the wholesomeness of radio of the air
and belonging sandwiches, you shall have egg, you shall have devon,
the deviance is all well and gone for the delicatess
but the value of lightwholesomeness persists as the quiet orthodoxy of shut ups
and the street is not mine but mine, and it is all mine including the not mine
as said in Vietnamese.

The quiet orthodoxy of dance, where finally the Teutonic knight cannot keep their
heads up and steely gazes for boofhead fighting
but look downwords to shoes that again should have wept in bone shame
but hardons are the mystery of the dance of streets we own
streets of quiet where we can only hear ourselves
where shut up and quiet is confused with humility
and confused easierly with violence and struggle
on laminated tables of one voice and one epiphyte and a gaggle of infant suckers
where the soldier as soldier is the highest rank of the land
the gun fits better with the voice here and there

snow monkeys that huddle close in warm pools of what-about-me,
are not evolved enough for pistols,
let alone interminable Hellenic arrows 
and the quiet orthodoxy of fitting in home and public agorahouses,
David Malouf, dance, shut up shutout, shut-in - its the Fit's Law by your chimeless clock.

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