....assembles an amazing cast of people in recognisable often dark
places. With fine detail, their domestic & working lives are brilliantly
Girls play with fire the boys
mix plaster. Economics is all about cake
dong, baht, dollar
if you want some just holler.
Early grave, be brave we all rehearse
this pitiless sky...
& the lie.
This morning mildly silenced
under--what I research and discover to be
the malls have a lightless glitter
We are oncological ontological frumps
is appeared. I am finally free
(tell the broker)
but still sit here before the same screen,
immobilised within choice, we
never leave the suburbs.
What about your smile,
that infamous belly laugh? Our domesticated organs
pump and grind.
You’ve made up our mind
kick the fuck it/put on shoes,
the paper between a life and living
is just that, 80gsm, nothing.
Saddle up the cat and head off for the freeway.
Winter wins (again), convictions empty
a lethal spill
that sends us coughing to the pills.
Though the trip spans
some perilous seconds
we have reached a slipshod epiphany.
Fantail hands, sensitive shoes,
the whole package arrives at the fountain safe
in a blue plastic tarpaulin.
The blunt obduracy of evergreens watch spatter.
Insect jackpot, crows close their eyes.
Woollen head, fat soil
these pillows of moment.
Travelled further than we think,
We are pierced.
This was the point.
Stock Market Jive
Above the snotty handkerchief of shoppers cars,
beneath a spray of confected integrity
we watch investors run like jazz.
They reinforce the brokers’ windows now,
without oxygen of confidence
banks all sputter.
Perhaps today it will set me loose--
the astuteness of those who have nothing say--
that’s the goal, the
where our futures lie down beside the calici baits
and durable plastic concession cards.
To twinkle in the tarnished tangle of troubles,
I’ve eaten out of garbage cans
(only the better ones
& long ago). As squatters we read
the quality weekend papers.
My scab is my shell is my home but
I won’t exaggerate. Hold the fractured nest
more carefully, resilience.
Wisdom is overrated anyway, John
Coltrane drove a car and the gurus
tires out your stubbled days, the soaring and the slump.
Growth becomes cancer,
stock index like the Subha
99 names of god
in polished stone, time was
I’d leave it all for that snare drum girl
at Southwest Rocks.
Bind up the dead,
grease Cocos Palms.
Next day the bonny bouncing bourse ↑ 186
better than porn this internet party.
it’s a variety of music--
capital and the liminal louche...
felonious monk, money-monkeyed manna.
But no one told us
that comfort is a long solo
in a crowded bar.
Almost pulled it off.
I ask myself
if there’s any food that hasn’t been alive.
Yes! Milk of course the
fatty juice we steal from
young still lowing to the womb. Maybe honey, we
turn from our butchery only for the richest fare.
The slash and sunder--
death salad with
a bitter dressing
as though we recognise
the nakedness of our slice.
towards the grave,
brave slaves of red appetite.
Author’s Bio: Les Wicks is a published writer with a credit of having published books such as The Vanguard Sleeps In (Glandular, 1981), Cannibals (Rochford St, 1985), Tickle (Island, 1993), Nitty Gritty (Five Islands, 1997), The Ways of Waves (Sidewalk, 2000), Appetites of Light (Presspress, 2002), Stories of the Feet (Five Islands, 2004) and The Ambrosiacs (Island, 2009).
He's performed at festivals, schools, prison etc. Runs workshops across Australia and is the editor of Meuse Press which focuses on poetry outreach projects like poetry on buses & poetry published on the surface of a river. He can be reached at: email@example.com.
Web site: http://leswicks.tripod.com/lw.htm