Spiral Syndicate

— Abbra Kotlarczyk

from poetry suite ‘House & Garden Renos’

ii. Mulch ourselves a new

The thing about a garden is—you have to be able to see—all sides—of its
cycle—Hold it—lapidarian—in your mind. The human brain—primed
for waltzing—inside a scenario—of cause and effect—in the garden—it is
subject—to its host elements—in Sun—water—wind fire—stress—feral
insatiable energy—of the shared earth—out of which the real—revolution—
takes place. Aiding and abiding—never asserting cause—as if we’re ever
anything other—than loyal proletariat workers—for the Sun. Learning that
effect—is of the same texture—the same aesthetic—survivalist tendency—
that governs the brain—Squishy corralling the inputs—it requires—to thrive.
You and garden—are inside the spiral—endlessly forming—the present
centre—past and future banding—around you. Where Carlo Levi had
said—the future has an ancient heart—we read its beating—in a crinoline
skirting—of withered bean stalk—hemming end of season—clear out—for
former—future green—against green—Cocteau’s greengages—splitting
their sides—falling. This staunch syndicate—of dried mint—old man salt
bush—twists branches—gingerly vanquishing—smoke screens—inside stalk
mulching—future sessions. Either that—or the snails—stripped the whole
thing—in one swift motion—A florist defoliaging the stock market—at the
base—of the crystal vase.

Seasonable accruals—become possible again—as decline softens—to
Sun reversing striptease—farewelling elegiac leaves—dressing up of
spines—in billion dollar verdant—coppice couture—Forwarding the
privilege of abundance—back to a place—fettered and rooted—in exposed
infrastructures. Entropy—lets the light in—lets the rampage in—lets
the sugar rim—the broken mug—the flute—the casserole dish—used for
ferrying its babies—from this nature—to our culture. Cocteau’s potential
falling—from the roof—had he not built his house—out of poems. Inside
this propagation—we slacken—we let the light reach—screw—and delight—
the centre—Where green covers pathway—to begin again—begin again.
Eventually it falls—towering babel—of hair shedding nape—softened brio—
centric mass—turfed around the base—Sod wars—nitrogen fixing—sunken
agendas. Territory delimits—the small climate of beds—that sleep—the
pubic mound: Seed—meet form—with air. These archival tendencies—into
vertical shaft—thick rinsed—and mourning—with dew. When I see brown—
dry—and demise—I cut back—prepare for the charge—crumble myself—
into the circadian knowledge—of return—Fertilise a rift—into a utensil.

There is preparation for life here—when it looks—like this

Australian Poetry Journal 12.2 can be found here.