ON THE CHESTER DRAWERS

the day is there

bright / clear / classic

like Es are there

ambiguous / vestigial

at the end of words

the sun stencilled shapes

on the chester drawers

are

softly adrift

with

packed lunch sadness

& i shovel on the optimism

like ketchup
on dry mash

working with the bones of it

the doom of it

the habit & faith & light of it

in the predicted ash

MIGRAINE #80

the headache says

all the patterned shirts

must stay in the armoire

let them yell

behind closed doors

 

& you reread the braille of scars

& moles 

& miscellaneous

waiting for silk wind 

in the sandpaper land

dressed in low stimulus grey

BOOKBAGS & BACKPACKS

 

the sludge
burbling in the turdle runoff
once was rain maybe
gentle in spring

&
falling
on
small shoes & swings
&

bookbags & backpacks

&

hand-me-down softshell hoods

&

a mothers phone

the banking app there

& her anxious minces

SOLAR LENTIGINES

the small blemishes

of oil splatter burns

from when i cooked steaks

gives me a glimpse
of my hands aged
with liver spots

& solar lentigines  

~

now my hands

creep me out
like sudden spiders

magritte big
wild with potential
& Unmine

& i clamp them shut

& pick three real things

against the ennui 

& marrow angst 

WELL DONE ELVIS

legs weak
as the UN

i walk slow
as human rights

to the park
green as the hulk

where a footy coach
dressed like tik tok

shouts well done elvis
with minimal cringe

at a toddler
small as a claymore

& i am hooded
like a looting racist 

but cos the suns low

like new year morale

& i smile
like jesus might

at a dog
looking sad as a mother

markings on his face
like forever tears