Ultradian Rhythm Poem by Pam Brown

oppspinn,
I think that’s
Finnish for ‘made up’

places to go like Sarcadia
or Sfax
or here, just across the tram-track
from Bingo
on the top floor next door
to Blockbuster
(a kind of
pre-cognitive landmark)
under the antenna-nest
of the dream bird
that hatches the egg
of experience, boredom.

also ‘made-up’
& performed –
optimism, like
peacetime’s modern luxury –
having a grave
all to yourself

down below
the traffic
sounds like the sea,
like the Pacific (perhaps)
rising under
a pall of poison,
islands sinking
as morning’s white moon
still dangles
in the sickly blue
behind the mobile phone tower.

sherbet-brained,
fizzily beginning to feel
like Nietzsche spake –
nothing is worth anything

insects frolic
in my hairs,
I open another dusty book
in the weak Roman shade

seems like Brisbane
summer grey
and I’ve come so very far
to make this small comparison