All recent-like, Jordan Prosser posted a new online repository of stories and poems and fragments, under the title Jordan Doesn’t Exist, which is probably a lie, and I know because I have encountered Prosser – along with fellow film-theatre-word devil Sam Burns-Warr, Prosser is lonely theatre, whose contribution to Belconnen Theatre‘s 2007 WET Season (which I curated) was The Landlords; probably the best original piece I’ve seen from a new group in a couple of years:
JC: You know what I heard once though? That the little wooden and paper umbrellas that people put in cocktails were invented before the umbrellas that people carry round in the rain.
Archie: No, they weren’t.
JC: Well, they were. First plane was made of paper.
– From The Landlords
Anyway, Jordan’s site contains but a few pieces thus far, but this chunk from ‘I think we’ve been here before‘ stood out for me for some reason. Possibly because it absolutely feels like a note addressed to the Black Mountain Tower, the hypodermic jutting out of the Cancers.
When your hair is caught by the wind here
Masses of ibis will flock to you,
Our tower will be gutting fresh meat
When your eyes take this land in
I will run like water colour,
I will run and slip and slide
Past the tower,
As it caresses the plane,
We shimmy its blade
Again then fall to earth some more.
When your feet touch this floor
There’ll be cause for celebration;
They’ll kill the light grid
To spell your favourite words.
Absurd, I said.
What comes around
Comes round, I’ve found.
Leave your phones off until we reach the ground.
(My friend, he said,
Our tower gets smaller each time around.)