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 —
as a bulwark
against modernity’s axiomatic selfishness
which i realise may after all be my great theme like
here i am of sunday
rotoxid — fortunate
for all i am not very giving of myself
the mad winds in trees behind the houses and
but better than Lars von Trier
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
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.