i.m. Ric

to lose is to be in the game


Waking to anger

hauling that fire

through the day

every day

bloody tongues

licking the crater

frozen by courtesy
he thinks:

there must be

millions like me.

If you made a country of us,

would the U.N. be interested?

If you threw us

into Federation Square

tied at the ankle,

armed with razors,

would we challenge

Friday night football

for spectators?
Help us out here.

Name an orchid after failure.

Hang aspiration

from Flinders Street station.

Graffito government

with Gaudi twirl.
Give us

a Hallmark issue

of Dia de Muertes
tell us you’re breath for our wings

as you press us down

— such a pity you’re so heavy!
We’ll soon

learn your steel saw through iron

roofing tenor whine

as though it were song
and understand, though

we don’t know how,

that we were, always, wrong.
It seems you’re the best we can do.

How can we not believe you?