Recently I've had stellar good luck
as my request to interview Gravity was awarded. Gravity!
Now, because of time crunches and all that zodiac
continuum malarky one spaces out on
during AM payTV, I obliged Gravity's offer
to gab in the workplace. Gravity
whom I now know to be 'she'
was incurring a persnickety morning
inside her role as podiatrist to Stars.
Her practice, a bustling concern
saw both old light and new
jockeying for a fabulous glint in the nebulae of Is.
You treat their feet, I mentioned in passing, like gods
tend to dote upon battleships – getting basic architectures intact
ankles aplomb, welds trued
but allowing for touches of frivolous bauble
at fortyfive degree angles.
“Yes”, she responded.
“That's essentially true.
Starlets want pumps galactic in both pricetag and discolouration.
However, my male clientele never fritter with pretties.”
“Why, just last month Orion rang up. Did I have a reservation?
all sour and creaky, carrying on about arch supports
an offsetting of heft from his quiver and, well, how would you enjoy
that standing-there-for-millennia bit?”
I said I'd rather release my arrow
and go home to watch Sex and the City.
So, that got a grin.
My interview with Gravity went on.
“That show, it's been such a boon”
admitted Gravity expounding on process
while inserting a collagen pond
into the heel of constellation Pyxis. “I use lasers
to trim away cumbersome bone that can interfere
with the strappy, narrow goods sold down in The Horsehead
and Crab district 'hoods. Those places
they've become rather chic you know.” I did, or
so I hear. The foot altering biz is booming then?
I said, in guffawing motif.
To which Gravity replied
“I know women who leave their stockings on
when visiting their gynaecologist.
And Old Twinkletoes, lording it up, over
and out in Andromeda, safely inside
the cluster referred to as 'comfortable'
has a must-attend gala which by course
demands the yammering away at ground
but from quite perplexing distances.”
“She's a pretty lady” said Gravity, a touch defensively.
“And insists on sizing down for the worldliest of shoes.”
I inquired if pulsars or supernovas
perhaps en route to melodramas or church ever request
her service. Upon which Gravity gamely replied
“No. They tend to stick to runners or flats.”
Like chewing gum I asked?
Upon which she now blanched saying zilch
saying zilch silently
while applying a kosher salt-rub on Cassiopeia's foot.
Not a good sign.
Not a good sign at all.
I shuffled through parting remarks in a panic
as Jupiter mooned through style snapshots in albums
like me, attempting to pick out a statement
coyly evading fears of undergoing
the simple bunionectomy. My interview with
Gravity was coming to implosion
I could think only wether Virgo would still be Virgo
after a toe-shortening job? I let myself out
of her operating suite noting Gravity's hunch
over her patients from a vantage
boosted by reattached tendons.
HORSEHEAD MALLEY is an emerging young writer from country Victoria. Her verbose nature proved to be an initial hurdle in procuring publications, however recent takes by Overly, Southerland, Me and Jen, Me and Daryl, and The Aging have uncovered a growing audience for Horsehead Malley's evolving style. She is a promising young writer, having received the Blossoming Toddler Literary Prize and the Developing Zygote Stroke of Uber Brilliance Jamboree in Writing awards given annually by the Victorian Arts Council. Good works are highly anticipated from Horsehead Malley. If this proves false, she will happily settle for being a journalist. She is a young and emerging writer.
As reported on Cordite News Explosion, we are humbled and disappointed to announce that this poem was in fact written by Kent MacCarter.