Table of |
Through a train window
In the morning fog
You can almost believe
you can almost believe
It’s a good career,
You will always have work,
so the girls will love you,
and you will know all the fashionable sexy language
like kill ratios, throw ratios, sound nagger, and
wankers of mass disgustion.
And if any woman or man displeases you,
say kicks you out of bed or insults your
you can just put them on a list
and make them disappear.
You will learn valuable skills
so even if the unthinkable happens and
peace breaks out,
you can always find a job at an ad agency,
a TV newsroom,
or as a certain type of poet
making up new words for old fashions
about why certain kinds of people
have to die.
And you will learn how to keep yourself
off such lists.
While the kookaburra chirred through the eucalyptus-scented air
of the Blackbutt Reserve,
Sue’s fingers fondled the strings as she unclothed
a gum tree
of its crumbly brown bark,
and June and I strolled beneath trees
that perspectived a misty sky.
A mosquito shaped like a delta
found my blood before Sue’s eyes found her,
and flew replete far faster
than my slapping hand.
As we admired spider webs and shadowed ferns,
Sue redeemed the missed mosquito
by wafting a floating white leech,
a curling string of hunger lusting for my shoulder’s luscious skin,
off to the forest beyond.
A green-hued black lizard scuttled across our path
into thin bracken,
while Sue and I walked silently watching
its hind legs churn like the paddlewheels of a Mississippi gambler,
thirty inches of grace majestic under ferns.
As we strolled back to the car,
a magpie strolled down the path
hopping and bobbing,
and a parrot flaunted its scarlet head, scarlet chest,
and green and yellow body
while winging tree to tree,
only to freeze and blend red, yellow, green, and grace
beyond our sight, though before our eyes,
against the leaves and limbs
of blackbutt and gum.
Now, as the afternoon sun lowers towards a cliff-like hillside
in Newcastle, Australia,
I watch the waves pound surfers and beaches
beneath a cloud-laced blue sky.
The ocean spray recalls the mists in the eucalyptus rain forest
scant three hours before,
while a bride and groom pose on surf-besieged rocks
below my window
for their final photo
before their evening feast.
Night Skye’s Thoughts
Why is my dish empty?
What warped values,
what twisted universe of God
could allow such a fate?
Was it lust?
Did that clueless couple
spend three days undressed,
too obsessed with coupling to hear my meows
over their cries of love?
Or maybe they hate me?
Want me to open the door,
amble up the road,
and rub others’ ankles
for my mere pittance of food?
How should I punish their transgression of
Or maybe I was the sinner?
Did I bring them too few
too few sparrows?
Maybe its tit-for-tat,
I starved my people
so they starved their cat?