PAUA HOUSE BLUFF


Fred and Myrtle Flutey

On entering, you come to the conclusion
that the Baroque
was not recherché or evolved, but happened
naturally, spontaneously
- it had to.

Welcome to the Kraken's grotto, an atmosphere
of artful contrived
mermaids mermade from stingrays.
Sea-opal on the wall, Gaudi's mutating cathedral
wedding cake resized on a more
human scale          fit for a small town –
a simplicity
that breeds terraced cloudscape palaces.

This is the childhood forest
bristling with paradox where unconscious
archetypes go to die.          A magpie's eye
is home among the chaos
of souvenirs:          collect collect
collect - horde up other lives against the word.

If anything
be reassured that somewhere still
boys dive for pearls, girls wrestle with wolves
for magic love-charms.                    Here
in the magic storeroom of impossibility lie
the unanswered question
and time bomb third wish.

Here the forgotten, Tumbolia of lost things: the keys
to Limbo: the Kingdom
of Alien Logic.                    Go
curator of the hardly possible, historian
of hyper-reality kitsch dreams, Mr and Mrs Quixote,
radical semiologist, Minister
of Kiwi Kultur.                    Tell me
the syntax of paua shells.                    Go
to Paua Paradise.                    Children of all ages still
will come in giggling groups to breathe found curios in

the good witch's cave.


Earlier version published in Trout 8, 2000.

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