By | 1 June 2022

First published in Australia Poetry Journal 11.2.

when the sky rose big and gold the first day unbelievable god said
all is good in the pig and there I was,
Desire, wet as a whistle…
to whom do the spoils go?
dead mammon, collarbones …
ceramic leopard, cattle, banker’s lamp …
to whom the spoils? I scream to my career girls.
cast to the top of a pile of pearls, they wake
and want for nothing…
the wheel of time goes soft …
doom say the anchors, what left to do
but decorate the clouds …
I scream to my career girls, let’s have a worm farm
or a baby, we are just
dumb enough to make of this life
what we have extracted: culture,
climate, cocktails…
they want the same things they always did …
girls, I am the last to die …
spilling out of the jaws, ringing in the ears,
don’t mind that, the angel’s tone,
the swing of the two-handed sword resounding …
figs, husk cherries, lemon,
levitations of the evening,
beautiful, luminous skin …
nobody to bother you, not even with praise,
not even to ask you to leave …
girls … what wicked sign crackles across the surface of the seas?
… you will be fine, of course, career girls,
you have made it cosy here …
call on your saints, girls, pray for a little
walk-up apartment, keep faith …
hope is the thing with credenzas, three breeds of crawling vine,
the thing with beer money, glassware, burning wings…
my beautiful girls. my piggies.
I have seen things. nothing special,
the things of undergrounds, boutiques,
some nights of love… of course the moon …
lusts like the colours in the air, the song of bare feet on the carpet,
the eyes of men, chicken, green olives,
double-handling in the feminised labour market,
moral confusion, sex roles, I have
left a trail mix of pistachios
like butter …
girls, looking at your phones, so medicine is poison, so the water and the air
and the fruit are poison, what of it,
to-morrow the struggle but to-day the jam, ask yourself:
how should I, only small, go against the heavens,
shoulder burdens, take my finger out of a pie …
ahhh yes, baby ducks,
between goats, peonies, country road, brand new prius
eight hundred dollar rattan chair there are glottal threads stringing up
the one to the other, I know,
it looks like danger, all the black tape, like a costume, a cold case,
but horror is frivolous, I read that somewhere …
girls, my gain is not your gain but your loss is my loss,
evil keeps the same pace …
look upon my living room pastoral
look upon my brilliant dress
look upon my shining eye say yes

This entry was posted in CHAPBOOKS and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.