The Poetry Marathon

So, in brief, it was a post from a wrecked jetty near Deptford Creek where the cormorants dry out, a place where you and I could live and fish. But I lost it, the last post that had quotes from Brautigan and Trout Fishing in America, the book we carried around all day, and especially the bit when he writes ‘Fuck you,’ I said to the outhouse. All I want is a ride down the river.’

Sideways hug, all my children born out that ear now, once a year forever now because of that sidling hug. Well, digging a well to pop them down. And we’re so up, coming with a cup for the nightly piss and splish now. Sideways kiss, missing the cheek and into the hair let down to incorporate the lovers’ frown, in debt to bigger banks we once rolled down, collecting leaves like the wig not mine or yours but all the several ways to hug, which are not permitted now.

The putty pony has its special place

in the cleavage of the herdsman’s daughter

placed in conference for our riderless time

to protect her from all servitude

and the conspiracy of mange.

The inheritance of the surly night

unbearable as it was

kept the herdsman sane

but pushed his daughter through the keyhole

of an enchanted stable door.

That time you pulled that thing from out beneath the carpet without moving any of the furniture.

One night I heard you hacking back that budleia growing out of your bricks with just a pair of kitchen scissors.

Your balcony barbecue was a blaze commmented upon by everyone in our Whatsapp group.

Your girlfriend kept up her screaming fit for two hours and you were not moved.

Awesome.

Yes

I made this tie myself

out of a motel information card

No

I don’t want room service

or a wake-up call

There must be something

something I can say

to get us out of this

as bad as it is foolish

that fight on the roof of the train

dangling by a finger

and a thumb in your eye.

Perhaps out of shot actors

who roam the foreshore

can dramatise our scene

discuss motivation

for a redundant queen

and promote a goodwill claim

and figure this migrating ship.

I will weave for the tourists

said Tuukli

for the cameras

for the city sons

who like to see over

the top of a woman’s head

but I will not sell

my dream of riding bareback

on fucking icy steppes

in sling-back seal skin slippers

and nothing less.

Wear wedding dress to launderette, strip off to petticoat, ask to wash wedding dress in machines of heart broken customers, but offer to buy washing powder to be polite, wash til white dress is dirty grey. Take divorce photo with anyone who happens to be there. Keep shoes.

Please find attached:

floorplan to approve

concrete courting as requested

shambolic awnings

floral shitters

and library bucket.

Hippocrates, walk this way

through slabs of sanatorium

for your wealth and nocturnal happiness

we graft for you

and your midwife shapes.

People will still come here

to wave their possums on sticks