MAY

you slid into my life as though
a witch’s smock — a sun poem.

fat bee on a bright brick wall
atrocious swan of love

we roll apart
our grave-beds loose and hot

*

i have so many bouquets
it’s like somebitch died —

using love
as a bulwark
against modernity’s axiomatic selfishness
which i realise may after all be my great theme like
fuck

TINY VIOLETFLAVOURED

here i am of sunday
and earth
rotoxid — fortunate
for all i am not very giving of myself

the mad winds in trees behind the houses and
indulgent baby

bad
but better than Lars von Trier

like depression
all your friends have had me

affirmation: even the slug (who is most profane)
trails a platinum appliqué
of artistic tragedy

MY MARRIAGE THROAT

and what really mattered
were the cancers we metastasised along the way —

a shame of spotted blood on the guest-pillow.
the other afternoon i almost whistled after the hatchet-faced man on his red bicycle
like
pursue me!

desire very icicles
cracking fantastically from a wingmirror —

sorrow, o no
too many times left dry.

my marriage throat —
behind the suburb’s water-coloured fascia
a window filled with orchids in the fluted bonnets
of benighted spiritualists

what would it mean to shrink myself? pirate mini golf
and evenings spent choked to supernatancy
by well-beloved hand.

First published in THE WHITE REVIEW No. 23.