Scotch & Dirt

looking for mister rite r u the one
just need a down too earth guy (sic)
she had written, which made no difference to Mister Wrong
who stirred and clawed out from all of
thirty seconds sleep, wrecked awake by
a frigging mobile phone that bleeped its own depletion
like this somehow mattered, and some idiot cohabitant
that whimpered away three meters behind a thin wall
in its Tourette inability to stay serene and quiet. At all. Ever.

oh, Miss Right, look at you tonight
in your fifty dozen hoping little forms

eyes cut from bright white carpet and

six millimetres of forehead and a face which some pervert
somewhere out there wants to violate
but which someone else wants to shine and appease:
God help him.

men like tubs of playdough sleep alone
and sleep alongside DTE Miss Rights
soured with gravity
men mothered in contracts, occasionally
slipping loose in lounge rooms, startled with scotch
in expansive confusions of weird glee
like bats flying through mud
but mostly they are as still as turnips
the Miss Rights pull them from nightclubs, offices, cafeterias
and thrust them squat into their own acreage
– thus lodged, they are garnished with leisure wear
puppy fat, nodal brain sacs
tendrils gripping lightly
at the underworld of housing estates

spared woeful Icarus; the dooms and whims
the women pack the precious earth
around their turnips
and the turnips learn gratitude

Icarus gave up flying at the sun ages ago
it was no big deal, just painful at the time
and it was wasn’t the fall that hurt, only the landing
so now he uses a gliders or jetpacks
flies more or less horizontal
vaults across rooftops
sits atop chimney stacks and shopping centres at night
smoking a cigarette, patient – and weary – but mainly patient
waiting for the sun he has learnt to respect
while the turnips
buried down with the offal and hearts of the dead
are fixed asleep in a starched static
that passes for dreaming.


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