POETRY



An Irish Airman Foresees His Death by Donald J. Trump

There’s this poem I read. I love poems. Really love them. I should put out a book of my own poems. It’d be very good. A very big seller. So this poem’s about some air force pilot. Irish. Says he …

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Purple House − Maleny

It is a purple house in the shape of a shell or an ear, which is impossible, except this is someone able to hear the brain’s music. Her mountain home crouches where it can listen to the valley: undercurrents of …

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Vodokhryshchi

we take the steps down to the river and Seva talks to the dog we woke up, barking us away from her pups, he stills her in his language, their language, we pass this gatekeeper and cross the narrow balance …

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Untitled

as if their passion is a shroud against the sun they gather en-masse for the communion, feasting on the body and the blood of the other, those who are denied entry, who know the meaning of fire. the fields of …

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Another Gospel of Fire

When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire —Stars, Your Ex Lover Is Dead The one thing you’ll regret is not setting the world on fire yourself. Here we are, young and attractive, poetic, even, …

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imbibed aubade

stepping out with all the serenity of an electric-ended possum pelt, standing in the shock of sun coat coursing with energy, eyes turned to the pale face of morning. I look the day’s debut up and down slide my snout …

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Small witch, a shield

young girl pretends she is witch she is healer stalks round the yard out the front of her house silver ghost gum combs itself through the air small earth witch conjures spells in the dirt summons grimoires from deep in …

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Disambiguation

It’s like waking up on the first day of a new century having failed to drink yourself to death at an end-times party. A failure that’s like waving goodbye from the stern rail of a coal scuttle only to sneak …

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Clay

The laundrywomen no longer frequent this river bend because soldiers have begun to bathe in it. I hate the forest, its camphor chokehold. The pool where you disrobe. Your stateside fatigues collapsed in the dust like a dead man. Judging …

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Pas de Deux for Silhouette and Swan

after Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake ‘Tchaikovsky’s his vice’ — Roland Barthes. If you’re still looking, after they’ve called last drinks and the boy has emptied the ashtrays and collected the glasses, you can see the silhouettes of infamous men slip …

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Ekphrasis: Bill Henson, Untitled 128/13, 1985/86, type C colour photograph

The way a lighted late sky over suburbs causes pain in the body occurs despite its being nothing to do with us, just light and a particular density of gas. Like God it is unphotographable. The hurtling empire of cars, …

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In the Land of Nod

Of all ironies, I woke in the Land of Nod. Everyone agreed there—even about God. So many yay-sayers, moving their heads up and down. I thought I must be dreaming. It was difficult to resist what everyone knew to be …

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