Abortion

•10/12/2012 • Leave a Comment

Lips sewn shut:
stained, inert
in the flush of liberation —
the hacking up of
crowning tongues,
once flickering
in the rush of air.

The remnants linger,
intact;
adornments for
a disused room,
all half-life
and hard waste.

Corrode them.
Sob peacefully,
and speak of 
hells averted.

Pizza Shop

•17/12/2011 • Leave a Comment

When I tire of sushi and the
violence of the shopping mall,
I flee for the other street;
its rhythmic heels and passing tram jar
an incidental score at worst.

Lunch has changed since ’51,
though that’s not my nostalgia—
it’s a cycle long since closed,
the foreign cashed for ubiquity.

But some things won’t move.
The rusting tram rails outside lie
timeless, like the grayish row
coming soon to a heritage list near you.

And punctuality, too, is still in vogue;
as, engrossed in some webpage,
I chew through the staples
and ward off the 28th
minute’s re-engagement call.

In this street, time has always mattered.
At 3, I guess, you’ll hide in the back room,
slip home or admire the shop-fronts,
while I traipse up to 90 minutes of silence
and a footpath marred by empty chairs.

Monument

•05/10/2011 • 1 Comment

Ancient glyphs on unstable clay
divide a hard shell from its centre,
sever construction from landscape,
bisect equilibrium
and micro-theocracy.

At night, the temperature breeds;
while within, my humidity
seizes and entraps the parasite
that seeks to deploy a new one,
as my husband, invisible, jolts.

At four, the watchman sleeps;
and I, deliberately, traipse 
past brickwork graced with mud urns,
housing ornament and organism.

Beyond the walls, the rustling crops
admit their immobility:
a moat to pen their owners in,
albumen for a nucleus.

*

Shimmering spittle, pink-red hued,
hangs gently off the battered mouth
of the handsome, dust-streaked market whore
as merchants flee encroaching dusk.

I shuffle near him, warily,
affected by his half-slumped spine,
to overhear the muttered verse
he chants in sullen monotone:

“This city’s sacred harvest rites
are frowned upon by Yahweh God;
its sexual immorality
and ritual child sacrifice
abominations in his sight.

Thus, His mighty force shall cleanse
this population from the Earth,
along with every beast therein.
With this, the local tribes will know
that this is how He deals with sin.”

Laid static in a nearby barn, 
the gathered crops dwell disconnected;
buffered from the breeze outside
as fire cascades from the sky.

*

When the destructive grandeur
of bipolar malevolence struck,
I was made recipient of a
trip for four to incest porn — the luck
denied to 10,000 or so
on supplication’s account.

I run headlong from the woman in flames,
who grieves for her charcoal-in-arms
as my husband blinds me; as
my back, half-seared, blisters;
as my lip shakes for my son-in-law.
The prophet speaks in sombre tones,
and grips my wrist paternally. I turn, 
and I’m spared the pistol jump; the drowning; 
the scene I face with the briefest glance – 
an eternal second of outcry.

A Review of the Short Film “Darkness, Light, Darkness” by Jan Svankmajer

•12/09/2011 • 1 Comment

Little stings like incompetence:
the knowledge
that my body, at the
peak of its faculties,
will give way;
and what I’ve learned with
age (if not posted in blogs)
will revert to vapour.

I acquire whilst nostalgic
for a
limbless state:
the safety of ignorance;
the freedom of naiveté;
dependence of infancy.
I acquire and
exchange, clinging to parabolae.
I acquire,

but the silo bursts.
The metal rusts.
The salt floods out
for ants and birds,
dissolving in the morning dew.

If I Were a Man

•11/09/2011 • 1 Comment

The simple charms of man
would colour my frailty:

to piss standing up;
to have confidence in thought;
to seduce;
to live unbound by neuroses;
to engage in pleasant, stable friendships;
to enjoy promiscuity;
to be strong.

Then, when I burn all
the barbie dolls, and dress
boys in pink, I’d proclaim
The Age Of Androgyny
And kill all the chauvinists
in a jolly good war;
retiring to academia, sport
and bursts of aggression,
dying with a Penthouse in hand;
Fathering sons who’d respect
my wise-yet-firm voice
But wonder why the gender studies
course was discontinued
at Clayton, and why all
the women sit shacked up
in birthing houses
learning to crochet
and please their husbands
(when the fourth wave had
seemed to wrap things up nicely!)
and they’d learn

to love power;
to exploit strength;
to be cruel;
to flee from emotion;
to be ruthless in business;
to flourish in conflict;
To fuck without feelings;
To conceptualise creative
controlling mechanisms.

And I’d be housed in a jar
(a splendid specimen of gender;
a link in the chain of patriarchy),
having died in the arms of identity.

I think I’d make a good man.

476

•11/09/2011 • 1 Comment

I can’t write with no hands —
and since the power went down,
I can’t seem to recall
the names of emperors.
I can’t plead with no cords,

and can’t fight with no fists,
and I’m scared of the Chinese:
of history retracting;
of power routing progress.
I can’t chew with no teeth —

and I’m staring, dismayed,
at the mould-flecked bread;
at the air-tight cans;
at the turned off taps.
I can’t breathe with no lungs,
and can’t dream with no mind —

but I used to wake sweating
from scenes of libraries burning;
yet here they stand, preserved,
fortresses of knowledge,
a curious waste of kindling.

Meat

•07/09/2011 • 1 Comment

“They’re eating pygmies,”
I read, in privileged horror,
mince pack and iPhone in hand.

Shoppers packed the aisle.

The previous day
on the highway,
(on a sunny afternoon),
a fox was squashed
by tire after tire.
At one ten, it makes a fine paste.

But I still can’t get over this pygmy thing
from around 2001.
It’s an unfathomable –
even comfortingly surreal –
streak of insanity
to have to comprehend,

which makes me wish I read the Sun,
and could know that this was evil;
alien; monstrous; not something
that I could do in the right environment
with the right tools.

And, although I consume it,
meat makes me uncomfortable
(sometimes): the geometric
cubes, strips and patterns
that fragment the body
into lifeless material,
distanced from its source.

That’s well suppressed; yet it’s
the juxtaposition of
the face and the meat-mincer
that’s curdling in my gut.