Poems

For Michael Farrell

for Michael Farrell


The vice valise with Strangers on a Train flan,
our champagne, the carriage where you sway
the grommet parmesan. That’s the assize
sool, sonnet. Warrants Damocles, and every masculine
suited a Sheriff, ghoul town diner the cherry tartlet
at early shutdown Brunetti’s, palette acerb;
cream company, an escape. Is La Mama openly goner
pert, derisory, I might have asked you if it mattered

but gruel we wake for, the smart, instead.
You make me want to dance thenceforward
dance more dance, dance like dance asunder,
maw of the snarl, the sapiens strip through
swarthy Midlands coal fires of greatcoats,
the unmaligned version of actual interior pillage
the coalface.

That ethic decided in cataracts I adore now chaste,
the chaise of the impossible composition.
           He said said vacant word but once during
Heteronym for the Anonymous Colloquium,
and even then the noble noblest caution. To cauterise
the world’s shroud of squid ink.                   
Citrus.
What could you possibly eat for breakfast          now?

 

Mount Difficult

Tomorrow, I promise to find the black boot,
but until then the swine is to be curled up like
a nude. Our mess cloys us. Look up
the red totems of the Grampians.
Every furrow sprouts mallee and silvery gum,
but footsteps of others pursue us.
Let my espionage look something like this:
the Pyrenees of France and Spain fleeing
the Pyrenees of Victoria, sprouting mallee and silvery gum,
the mauled kangaroo evidence the forage
through our pamphlets, and you and I dashing
for the bluff’s cove.

I ask him about the wood stove reaching for a
compartment of white heat, but Mount Difficult hovers
like a prison bunk and I am paralysed.
Its eaves recall the protrusion of the strip mall of Maebashi
and its mountain Akagi, dry as daylight, its foot candescent
green verdigris. I ask him again of the wood stove. There
is something about silicon in my mother’s hometown
alight. There is something about haloes of white light
plucked as crowns. No, there is something about
haloes of white light, plucked halogen heaters in the outdoors.

Do we eat pig’s head as the cold drops to foolishness?
If I had the right shoes, I’d wander down the street glad
as a madman, but I don’t have the smarts, you hear!

 

The American Returns to Rottnest

the jade American with thick face
before he returns to bivouac with the quokkas

Webb has a silent poem about the island
“all the sea like a stylus”

an uncle, the greater Darling Ranges, has overseen
the worthy effort of barbecue smelt, respite from
the derelict tennis court called tennis court derelict

The to and fro spectated as we were by the cannons
of the silent star jumps in journalese,
like the mettle of pig flesh, anyhow I left forever the moment
she throttled that chihuahua

Is that dash from the murder of the chihuahua
behind me? Where once I had access to the intimate
novels, swimming in her pools of ink, now I grovel
like cracks in the intercom

The jarrahs are much within, and, nearby,
the hierarchy of kookaburras
Fate is somewhat similar to the son of the physiotherapist,
a bushranger’s shot at a crossroads of commercial traffic

Is it that they’re able to see the glint of the polished?
No, the absence of the hand of fate is temporal
this crossroads in the suburban castle at sight of the horizon’s city,
the novelist

However, the vision was the American’s, whose bloodless cheeks
gad about the old barracks

Having answered the Sphinx’s kōan with an un-stringed
racket, the view thus crossroads requite the entry into fate

But fate cannot, the Cessna is dead, and the parlour of blue
is intact

Hear the fusillades, the powder éclat
of the seventeenth century gluey,
the anarchic and gutless rove
of a crass hermeneutics of genealogy

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