Les Wicks
Wicks has been a guest at most of Australia's literary festivals, toured widely and been published in well over 180 newspapers, anthologies and magazines across 10 countries in 7 languages. He runs Meuse press, which focused on poetry outreach projects. His seventh book of poetry is "Stories of the Feet" (Five Islands, 2004). http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm
the TABLE
Thrift is treason. The more you eat the more you grow. Junk economics.
Broadsheet liftout sections parade - business, cars, travel... a new career from slave yard to auctioneer. We need our dreams but why dress them in trash Armani?
A fortune. Cloud Nine - no humans, motorways sleep in the park beneath a teeming sky of continuous fireworks. Spacious as friends, our pinion of harvest... the lazy or the ride. Every man should have his lily... we set sail from the Cape of Storms too ardent.
I’ve aspired to but did not try nothing left. Perilous absence makes the heart grow pure. Black simpletons, the bereft adepts howl in their shelter as we shake loose coins like cold wet dogs.
I understand less each year and cannot rise to judge.
TERMINAL ONE
Random molecules, the autumn insurgency through automatic doors waxed coffee before the Foyer of Arrival. To undercut paradise, vex of cloud towards the ceramic basin of this day that is the point of stars.
Backpack hod and wheeled cotton floppy eyes we are the verge and the fulcrum. Denim vestment border security... cab doors applause at absentminded pecks these (6am!) family officiations. My daughter is back with Cold War medals and absinth.
KHUN
I remind myself, taking off from Sydney, that in this life all watches are fake. Any DVD is dodgy. Clothes run in colour.
To land in South-Asian humidly is like folding chocolate on pillows. Young couples, old fools disembark to the grey tiled template. Toilets flush merrily at the arrivals queue.
The beach speaks our language.
Rubber plantations bend and stretch between valleys. In a metal cage gibbons discuss reintroduction.
So many heroines... black backing band with red tinsel tails, she’s in blue jeans febrile kohl and a gravel of tattoos acupuncture of piano small scar large stud bitten and slutty, discordantly dragon.
Local bus diverts to deliver rice - tin shed construction camp - leaps puddles corrugated shoulders laughing Moslems rutting dogs.
The air outside the air in.
If Ladyboy wins the beauty prize (a silver Mercedes) she promises to become a monk. Her parents grieve from a torn photo.
Gold leaf on concrete – amidst miracles we have nothing.
An anthem sounds from the Aussie Bar but no one stands. I cross my round. The “State of Origin” and days range the sun.
A kitten has died on temple grounds, some holy man’s chant is the only breeze.
Dutch Pieter plans to add some karaoke, a hill goes up in homes. Death by small improvements reaves across the globe.
BRILLIANCE
Mary the Mauritian always buffed the floors with her feet, cloth wrapped round and around her earth and milk feet at 1.30am she hip-swagdanced a full shine. Two years later the most callous hearts all mourned the arrival of an electric buffer.
An EXTRAORDINARY EXTINCTION
We dress the world in pearls of light before we take her out each night. But we’re outta love stuff.
In these bach huts the zebras are hiding in the screen print. We play white noise on the balcony and there is no sign of meat.
In keeping with our bold intellect the crash is no accident of wall or water. We have choreographers, cinematographer, make up artists. Some species of bird leave only footprints in shale a few mineralised bones. “Our” show will be remembered in the rock-lines of life. Around elderly cities like York we’ll be 15 metres deep. The weight of lives skews the axis and snows into space.
We invented and threw away (sedimentary, sedentary, dysentery, dissolute) yes harmony as a construct.
We are the sweat of the globe. Pittsburgh to Parramatta fall off the stars well signposted roads swing, then swoon. Our mouths are domesticated... wearing garish raincoats the cattle chew on before sacrifice.
Take away skin-free we sing on the wing sunny-boy lesions fold this poem into a hat.
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