The Mahler Erasures by John Kinsella

Author:John Kinsella
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press

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Those who destroy places, he said to himself, watching the magpie on the green. Those who destroy places, love. Also. They love also. Love, also. Also love. On the green—a cleared space grassed, watered. On the lawn. Those great lovers eye off the uncleared areas and want to make their estates. All the cleared and pillaged areas around and the aim for the bit of uncleared land they can obtain by influencing or stacking councils. Influencing public opinion. Making places for people to live, to enjoy the activities of living. A living. To be alive and live. To decease the marsupials whose DNA departs from their own 150 million years ago. Genome permission, which doesn’t stick when the last guerrilla habitats are rolled back as well. But that’s nowhere near, is it. Boom. Boom. Such job security in the rings of growth, old trees felled to make way. Magpie on the lawn, in colonial equivocation applied by makers of art, not by itself. Protection is ‘red tape’ so red tape is to be dispensed with. Dispenser. Tape off the dispenser. Grammar of people first, and sheen of stripped land up to the edge of the reserve which developers and hunters eye off, their soul’s crushed by it just being there for something other than themselves. They will have sway. The orange route, the tear along these lines, Atlantis into the sea, the lines of refugees moving into the dry, waterless inland. Cleared. Uncleared. Clarification. Reclarifying the space for rebuilding in own images. They fine their beers with fish bladders and would float in a flooded world. A flooded world without a drop to drink. Nor any drop to drink. Nor any. Drop. To drink. As easy as that, as copyright exists in the textual profit zone but not in the theft of Aboriginal lands. No plagiarism of presence there, eh? And so he wondered, looking at the English magpie on the English green. Gotta love ’em. Love ’em all. Love us. Love me. And there and then, out of love, Harold decided he would disrupt business in any way he could. Any non-violent way. Graffiti. Blocking doorways. Pissing through the cracks. Sab. Love. Sab. Betrayer of Harold but not of foxes. It’s okay to love the sab. It is. And to remember. And the orange route up the hill, past Red Hill poison zone, past Gidge to Lillydale, destruction all the way through to Great Eastern Highway, carrying loads east, sucking them in west, and destroying all in the path of lovers’ commerce. Job security. Generating wealth. Practicalities. Love in the Antipodes. Too. Love, too. All love, everywhere. Even in the bombing zones world powers have denoted in Syria, or anywhere on the concept of a Middle East—between here and there, there and here. The compass up to its loving tricks. Lovely, this moral compass this search for origins of belief this tracking routes of aspiration this warping to fit the mould this star-crossed lovefest of human ingenuity

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