Poem 303
Somewhat tongue in cheek, this was sparked by a few things – my angle lamp poised over my typewriter (start with what’s in front of you), an acquaintance at university who accompanied an anthropologist on a field trip into a recently opened up area of highlands in PNG and came back as the first white woman ever to contract a particular skin disease (which at the time I considered to constitute the last word in cool) and a documentary I saw about a PNG man preparing a massive pig-giving ceremony who always wore a t-shirt with Why Don’t We Do It In The Road? on it …
… imagine this as emanating from the point of view of a fevered or otherwise altered individual who is increasingly losing their grip on both their geophysical location and cultural norms …
( I like the onomatopoeic monkey chatter of inter tribal warfare … )
Anthropology
is this an angle lamp or an exotic tree? is it night or day turned back under the leaves? silence singing or the taut stretched net of insect song see the aluminium bird scratch the rare skin disease take the pig as money hear the monkey with the nervous breakdown inter tribal warfare inter tribal warfare are these white lines on the road or painted up your face? take me to the single mens hut get me drunk on ferment home milk delivery is that a custom or a superstition? flash me a strange bird hit me with a courting ritual I want a pot-bellied view of a quirky mixture of old and new I mean I'm dancing look at me I'm slapping time I mean is this a poem or a neck ornament?