first



The sloth to my having being sandwich hand steep,

so may we marquee sloth to not stoop

Rolls Royce, don’t move, around them moves

derby droves, strewn wishes

of rebarbative stone fishes. NN. Struth

ventriloquy. Through city I speaks easy entrance

free, tepee clone.
The long history strokes empire, gainfully employed,

but markedly ostracism. There, Marquis,

Kate Middleton and William Wordsworth come up

for tropics air like its live mercury set

cranium demonstration-like-Zaha-Hadid-metamorphosing

1/10th model-embedded, the history cake

containment in vitreo. Metaphysical suspenders.



second



It’s like smart alec spoliation, pillage absolute

in posthumousness, across the known diocese,

alp to plain. Convalesce valley of the virgins, spay

your first neighbour. Journalism turns faster

than the previous punnet, the first of four had white

blooms of spoil. He force-fed strawberries to begin,

our unconscious hours, strawberry milk, as our agent advises,

when we confide,

like mongrels as masterless as the cynic.



third



First mention of the hung cloven foot slung

for sweetness, and if not sweetness sweetness of the marvel

at this compassion for

neoteny. Who said blood ran bloodless veinless femur,

white as rain! Toddler saddles the international toggle doner,

his grand vision beyond direct intervention action incarnate

the falcon by sovereign suspension, unshot by gun

and unmaimed by dog. The duck he condescends, but Juno’s

peacock.

And what if you were assigned by HBC this cynic’s Sabbath

time to sew the latest flavoured milk crop,

or the variorum edition of architect juvenilia,

Stand up dear child let me see your tear ducts, you redden.



fourth



So called sloth stymied, but hirsute beyond years and my reputation

precedes me lichenly.  Hydrofoil or hovercraft, Yakushima

or Tasmania, mood: solar nude. Your hand

parroting me. Starch on the irrefragable surface cake and silicon

unburn, at least this measly pulpit eats.

When the ghost up and walks it tokes poplar drive and wrong turn

for our Fairlaine bushwhack with tepee, juvenilia,

the desert funerals. To think we’d meet your foster parents

slunk on main street,

maybe the curmudgeon rest stop with pompous Samaritan phone,

since it divines but we beggarly.

Poorly, pregnant asp for a sinus, Geelong checks its Modernist warranty

for renovations on the sacristy for Hermes,
the name making no plaques for the mass dead, mind you,

mind all of you scurrilous dependents

of Temple Bar Pulley System, as early as generation your nails

are chalk, your quail talons for digits

since a pulley even takes the ring from the can of coke,

bane of your fumbles. I say loiter the shit out of the apocalypse

post-coitus. Waratah sport.