Poems

patchology

the seams are red. the sun out
: like a technically defrocked bishop; exclamations
have their own heaven ... like pandas through
the hourglass. at the noodle shop,
where prawns are prawns, & pork just
synechdoche. 'this is what im
saying, limos are faster, but just
as cheap!' the word 'splash'
splashes, but the box stays dry.
it was alleluia for sore thighs when we
finally touched down: in other words,
four all. (you didnt make friends
, but knew the alleys intimately.)
the way we like its already here!
as camels stomp towards xmas, we dream
of steve mcqueen (in lieu of sleep
). 'there is a bridge that
never falls down' – i knew which
one too, & blessed abc national.
purple sneakers, hurtful cheetahs: its sad
, that way to tipperary, & littered
with relatives bones. cmon, vilene,
theres a world of poetry that never passes
a corner shop in the middle of yeswhere
? its busy paying rotten elves to talk
loud nonsense to migrants, sowing the rhythms
of disco text & the sexolettes, who
are to james brown what yoghurt is to
cats or chevres to duchamp: a noble
animal in multiple contexts – especially if you
were born in the chinese year of mick
jagger or x x (my parents were
). that took some noodling in the
carbon-emitting breeze, eat vintage cheese
& run: chance is in your seat


if we took a holiday

noones dumped garbage at the lancome counter for
some time. the rain has washed the
dog away. do you like the beatles
? taking an athematic approach to her work
: none of my friends are directly responsible
for genocide, so theyre easy to forgive
– but what if theyd worked on a
campaign selling powdered milk? starbucks raisin scones
are great & so is river water.
‘thats papaya.’ the drum says
HA HA in a clipped, not at
all simpsons-like fashion. taken by
the empty shelf; no wolves to give
their body to. the relief is less
than expected. the cupboard opens, revealing
a scaffolding of bamboo / skins drying on
the motorway. (we had plaid,
now were having something cat-based.
) to sustain 'duplessian' interest:
thats the goal. we delete something polo
, & wish we had doctor feet.
wax or beef candles on the wax lasagne
? the radio falls, playing a mid
-career police song, while helmets agitate
like sex objects. presumably birnam wood wouldnt
stay at dunsinane indefinitely, & ringbarking doesnt
always take. a blue dressing-gown
gives an address to the nation, followed
by a play. the plane flies beneath
the ocean, & no sharks fall ...
the icing on the cake remains as mysterious
as a wolf-whistle with a chicken
on tops a paradox. another rickety bridge
imitates fog, follow flies to food;
now my lightest friend is ready to descend


the broken arm

theres a secret in our street
. its been there since i
skedaddled, though ferretsve been sent
in. falling through collapsing paths
, winds, illuminated blues &
orchids. the town lies down,
as if on holiday, &
forgets to get up. if
it once had a wallet or
handbag, or portable imax theatre or
mice gym – theyre long gone
. among all the ‘rooners
’, one undistinguished cackle knows
something true. two craggy eyes
see the soles of our feet
. but which? showering,
humming like a megaphone, themes
of wwii & platform boots.
in the hills, are people
wearing lilac & lemon leaves &
thinking it normal. they have
baby skin. i make my own
orange crates out of cedar or
mahogany & use them for hens
. stroking the sweet fur of
a water rat, sewing bristles
for a toad with one hand
: australian pueblo life ... communities
saving for a town intellectual,
to have it over other towns
at fairs. they wear those tortilla
hats, eating them as they
make winning points. because of
the drought, the sea-
camels are stuck at lakes entrance


les casuals

in the coal drains a dingo train. it
pressures the windmill tip, swooshing at the cuffs
, the fisticuffs. handball hardens the caramel elvis
. castaways batten on the flat leaves, happy
at the poverties theyve lost. invite me to
dinner – i wont ask the foods name,
like a tourist. we decide to stop conversing

... we talk, we listen, its a

patchwork. (sugar forms into furniture.)

deranged martians, sallow nincompoops huddle on the stoops
& trampolines of north fitzroy & east brunswick.
not a lot of love gets made, but
gradually the buskers split into buskers, ex-
buskers & studio artists. huntsman spiders wake up

on their faces, damp with drool. hayley

spends the summer inside, hoping to meet morrissey
, but morrissey would rather walk away from her

house, backwards in squeaky shoes, than hear

his own voice winding out of the speakers like
a mouse in a crate of vinegar. on
the lawns, young unemployed spacepeople shock the clover
with their verse. but clover knows nothing of

verse & little of anything else, but flowering

, dying, & the feeling of being rampaged
over by dalek wheels ... in the cinema,
dismayed, as the dutch ear falls towards them
... the bowl lay on the table, uneaten
like an opera house adorned with cream or sombrero

with milk. passengers were thanked for their cooperation in

singing sad songs to the airport, soothing its
breast. trumpery, said hayleys mother, stirring
rocks for her daughters breakfast. but she left
it, as of no consequence, at a
whim, to put on her marching girls uniform
: pleased to have a daughter for an audience

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