shout You did
Â
Across the bedrooms of the nation they are crying o my god and omigod
and omg and g almighty Christ on earth and on a bicycle what happened
where was I when that truck hit me and I thought among this blasphemy
my misery must end why are you with me if not helpmeet, friend
to guide me through the labyrinth of sin, disgrace and worse, insult
my colleagues and employer and I have to leave for work now
Â
They are speaking when they finally untie the Windsor knot that was
their tongue and making words out of the alphabet thatâs mixed up
saying Gertrude Steinways stone me, and the crows and all the raptors
Nevermore-wise as they hold their safety razors and attempt to shave
the hairs of dogs that stick out like whatever who remembers,
are those feet below me mine what face is this I have to look good
for the funeral somebodyâs, mine today
Â
Theyâre lying sweltering in their odour hell what perished here last night
what am I doing in this bed that keeps on moving whoâs that body here
beside me, they are saying this is rough hold on Iâm falling through the universe
again this bed is slipping into space what is that figure on the carpet,
thatâs no painting thatâs my husband thatâs my wife I think Iâm married
Who are you where am I now how did we meet o god not you
Â
Theyâre making whoopee in the barrel that is going over Bridal Falls,
Niagara, Wollomombi, Apsley Cataract, a dog a snake a wildcat
getting friendly as they tumble into mateyness and once again with feeling
to the top, hereâs Mister Sisyphus heâs going up again
the warrior scuttling up the heights to that lone pine
thatâs every morning in the bedrooms of Australia
Trophy Getters
Craig Sherborne
Me and the young guys cough how women
flirt crude just like us.
We are the few who get them,
thatâs our boasting.
We know they want to love us heartfully
but have hard bargains from which we shy.
We call one over like an interview â
her of us as much as us of her.
âFar too homely,â we smirk
into our laughing-gas drinks.
âSheâll make someone a nice first wife.â
Wifeâs not the point, we jibe:
tonight weâre trifling from behind our Marlboros.
She is a form of money. We four would divvy her
if we were kinked that way.
The most neon our eyes can be,
the most muscled our smiles,
must lever her into decision:
is she Bradâs tonight or mine?
Richoâs or Hobbsyâs?
The air blind and deaf with indoor night
and tom-tom bourbon.
My tactic, being older, is to offer her my seat,
bow too politely to be genuine,
and wish there were no laws to this,
that I could rip and lick right now
without remorse or evidence or bruise.
Humility
Alex Skovron
For months Mozart has been so crucial I havenât played him.
The winds, filibustering the house, have heard
the chimney crackle and the paint strain
while the old obsessions went ignored. What was the point?
One evening I flipped the LP of the A major (K.488)
and the slow movement lacerated my defences
all over again. I squinted beyond the buddleia
on the fenceline and thought I could discern vast citadels
circling the horizon, and it was almost a joy
that swept its andante through the sad molecules
of my imaginings â but just then
a magpie alighted on the lawn, dragging a shadow
behind it as the sky turned a molten gold and a storm
broke from the west. The disc had ended
(I had no recollection of having heard the rondo finale)
and I sprang to the phone, jangling churlishly
to tell me you were gone. Music is like that:
it knows. It brought to mind what you had shown me
on the Baltic coast under the lighthouse:
twirling a miniature sailboat of souvenir amber
between thumb and forefinger, you pointed to the tower
and the encircling gulls and âLook at them,â you said.
âThey love the lighthouse. It teaches them
Â
Across the bedrooms of the nation they are crying o my god and omigod
and omg and g almighty Christ on earth and on a bicycle what happened
where was I when that truck hit me and I thought among this blasphemy
my misery must end why are you with me if not helpmeet, friend
to guide me through the labyrinth of sin, disgrace and worse, insult
my colleagues and employer and I have to leave for work now
Â
They are speaking when they finally untie the Windsor knot that was
their tongue and making words out of the alphabet thatâs mixed up
saying Gertrude Steinways stone me, and the crows and all the raptors
Nevermore-wise as they hold their safety razors and attempt to shave
the hairs of dogs that stick out like whatever who remembers,
are those feet below me mine what face is this I have to look good
for the funeral somebodyâs, mine today
Â
Theyâre lying sweltering in their odour hell what perished here last night
what am I doing in this bed that keeps on moving whoâs that body here
beside me, they are saying this is rough hold on Iâm falling through the universe
again this bed is slipping into space what is that figure on the carpet,
thatâs no painting thatâs my husband thatâs my wife I think Iâm married
Who are you where am I now how did we meet o god not you
Â
Theyâre making whoopee in the barrel that is going over Bridal Falls,
Niagara, Wollomombi, Apsley Cataract, a dog a snake a wildcat
getting friendly as they tumble into mateyness and once again with feeling
to the top, hereâs Mister Sisyphus heâs going up again
the warrior scuttling up the heights to that lone pine
thatâs every morning in the bedrooms of Australia
Trophy Getters
Craig Sherborne
Me and the young guys cough how women
flirt crude just like us.
We are the few who get them,
thatâs our boasting.
We know they want to love us heartfully
but have hard bargains from which we shy.
We call one over like an interview â
her of us as much as us of her.
âFar too homely,â we smirk
into our laughing-gas drinks.
âSheâll make someone a nice first wife.â
Wifeâs not the point, we jibe:
tonight weâre trifling from behind our Marlboros.
She is a form of money. We four would divvy her
if we were kinked that way.
The most neon our eyes can be,
the most muscled our smiles,
must lever her into decision:
is she Bradâs tonight or mine?
Richoâs or Hobbsyâs?
The air blind and deaf with indoor night
and tom-tom bourbon.
My tactic, being older, is to offer her my seat,
bow too politely to be genuine,
and wish there were no laws to this,
that I could rip and lick right now
without remorse or evidence or bruise.
Humility
Alex Skovron
For months Mozart has been so crucial I havenât played him.
The winds, filibustering the house, have heard
the chimney crackle and the paint strain
while the old obsessions went ignored. What was the point?
One evening I flipped the LP of the A major (K.488)
and the slow movement lacerated my defences
all over again. I squinted beyond the buddleia
on the fenceline and thought I could discern vast citadels
circling the horizon, and it was almost a joy
that swept its andante through the sad molecules
of my imaginings â but just then
a magpie alighted on the lawn, dragging a shadow
behind it as the sky turned a molten gold and a storm
broke from the west. The disc had ended
(I had no recollection of having heard the rondo finale)
and I sprang to the phone, jangling churlishly
to tell me you were gone. Music is like that:
it knows. It brought to mind what you had shown me
on the Baltic coast under the lighthouse:
twirling a miniature sailboat of souvenir amber
between thumb and forefinger, you pointed to the tower
and the encircling gulls and âLook at them,â you said.
âThey love the lighthouse. It teaches them
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