Raving against the space
where the poem sounds
like a revolving door that
makes the noise a car makes
bumping into the dole—
that’s the target. And don’t
forget President Kennedy
travelling on the SS France
things are more like
they are now than they have
ever been before,
clear somehow, like
physical fitness. You
celebrate your indifference
with a packet of lollies
or a Ton-Ton Macoute
haircut. It’s almost
pure debauchery, as prayer
is for example: your heart
is full of hatreds more
intricate than fractures
in shatter-proof glass.
Put a brick through
a real-estate agent’s window
and it bounces back
and cuts you. That’s what
I mean about targets. Or
you can read Mayakovsky / he’s
a sort of Communist Bruce Dawe