Elvis and his dead twin, all grown

up and etched like a tattoo sleeve in silver

on black galaxy granite bear a striking resemblance

to the holographically rendered

aryan Jesus in my grandmother’s hallway –

another devotional grotesque proudly brought to you

like a dream within

a dream that’s been decoded

by the Elvis Presley Fan Club of Victoria

with special thanks to Giannerelli & Sons

who dug up the granite in Thomastown

somewhere along the creek

suppliers of granite spaceships, newer graves

mostly Italian, that line the narrowed paths

like a parade
If the monument had a twin

it wouldn’t be Graceland

probably the memorial in Kraków

Elvis’ head suspended in resin and his hair stained

shoe polish black by a concerned citizen

of the night 
No heads here, just the profane double

twin birds of paradise and an empty white vase

several bunches of silk and plastic flowers, mostly roses

scattered with milky beads of plastic dew

or rubbery white lilies, a coral pink lei

and an asymmetrically stapled

screenshot of Elvis’ first on-screen kiss

Dolores Hart is a nun now

not only alive but actually chanting in Latin

eight times a day

here she’s only a pretty ear and a slice

of chin, the shape of clean blonde swept out of frame

polka dot grid of white tissue body pressed

to coarser material, Elvis
Elvis kissing Dolores forever and

not kissing Dolores at all

kissing to the side of Dolores or kissing

the audience

of which Dolores is no longer a member

fringe falling in sharp rays

silhouetted century plant on this

grey Carlton afternoon
                              LOVING THOUGHTS

                              ON THIS YOUR 86TH

                              BIRTHDAY 

                              KEEP HEAVEN ROCKIN! 
                                   XOXOX

                                      XO

                                        X
Dolores laughs

the limit for a screen kiss back in 1957

was something like fifteen seconds

and this one……. dwells forever

in the evergreens or somewhere grainier

polka dotted paper flecked

the exact texture of galaxy black granite

eternal and finite, endlessly reproducible and

completely concrete

someone’s staples rusting and white paper frame

warping Elvis’ cheeks or

maybe Dolores is right and time

is the illusion

padding out the space between

wide-legged and falling on tip toes, crooning with our eyes closed

or silently screaming depending on the angle

someone else’s battle hymn

sheltered from the elements between two thick sheets

of clear plastic
In the grotto

two bibles and a clear plastic binder

protecting typewritten passages from Plato’s Cratylus

there are many kinds of desire

aren’t there, Homogenes?

but surely he would bind them with

the strongest one of all

naturally occurring sculptural chunks of Cape Schank

limestone glued with pale cement and reinforced

by rusty metal beams exposed on the roof

like a cake with not quite enough icing

or a jug of corn liquor at a champagne party

a gingko leaf and bright scraps of advertising material

placehold the tower of Babel, various psalms

and Daniel’s vision of Israel

as the four great beasts – talk about grotesque

honeycomb limestone strung by a thread

that cannot possibly support it

like a horse with legs

and countless other impossible absurdities

green chins of irish roses glowing

semi translucent through the concrete

sky light looming

pigs ears and cape province pigmy weed

inhabiting clefts along the outer wall
‘What could be more like Gladys

or a fitter background for her son, the flirtatious

male truck driver

who lounges against a rock in the sunlight

never doubting that for all his faults he is loved

and whose works are but extensions of his power

to charm

from weathered outcrop

to hill-top temple, from appearing waters to

conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard

are ingenious but short steps in a child’s wish

to receive more attention than his stillborn twin?’
So we constructed him a tomb

in the grand manner

a masterpiece of hylomorphic Victorian

aesthetics catering to the perambulatory genteel class

who promenade around the grounds, visiting

the coastal formations 
The paths a little narrower these days

and the grotto brake into pieces, residue stamped

and scattered to make room for mausoleums and the Elvis Presley

memorial shrine

lonely islands of succulent Gracelands

waiting to be featured in a coffee table book

along with fading back street milk bars, hand painted

garden gnomes and retired locksmiths

robot goldfish breeding in a verdigris fountain

or a Paul Yore installation, the kind that doesn’t get banned

and poems, I guess like Diane Fahey’s white paper flowers

blooming piñata guitar

always kind of dismissed her as a nature poet

and yet here I am running evergreens

through a plant identifying app

every variety of artificial flower doomed to return

the same error code

Note
Passages in inverted commas lifted, fairly intact, from W H Auden’s ‘In Praise of Limestone’.

Special thanks to Tim Edensor’s ‘Stone: Stories of Urban Materiality’ and Davis Jones’s ‘A Craftsman

of Rock: The Work of Charles Robinette’