By Graeme Turner

Only at the University of Surrealism,
The cloisters are melting,
The professors are carved from chocolate
And the students chant sweet intimacies in pidgin, debate with the sentences
Of glockenspiels, judiciously take notes on marzipan,
The dean smiles like a coffee machine,
And the lecture theatre
is open to a bleeding sky,
Walk into the café’s throat
That’s quivering pink with seventies dreams,

Lean across a bar that’s jumping
with teeth, order from the tongue.

In the quad, the paving congeals,
Ivy wriggles tangos
Against a wall of pastry,
The half empty fountain swallows a hiccup.

They are watering sofas in industrial biology
In economic sculpting
zeros from candlelight,
in literature reviewing footy fixtures
written on portable rainbows
That tell the tales of bisons.
In metaphysics
They are hammering concrete Into water. In classical post futurism they are ferreting oil tankers from Their own weak show bags
Woven from clay,
While the vice chancellor plagiarizes someone else’s Shadow,
Someday, there will be a dissertation On deck chairs built from celery,
But meantime you sit up late
Pouring champagne into your hard drive,
Writing notes with your cigarette,
As the rain blossoms upwards.

In another continuum your deadline has already
Expired. The seats have scampered
For the exits, and you stand in a suit of glass.

Only the on line library Is real.