Corey Wakeling lives in Melbourne. He is the author of chapbook Gargantuan Terrier, Buggy or Dinghy (Vagabond Press, 2012) and Goad Omen (Giramondo, 2013). With Jeremy Balius, Corey co-edited Outcrop: radical Australian poetry of land (Black Rider Press, 2013). He is reviews editor of Rabbit and interviews editor of Cordite.
Not the desert cinema, but concentration.
In this wake of both tenses, I’m yours toward
a contortion pharmacology, chemistry in practice.
If only the following hawked Leederville,
the ready tarp pulled tight as crude measuring
instrument as backdrop—Bishop Berkeley—
to view the movement
of stars in it, impression made of a just slung
body in it. A corpus stage. Because the sidereal
tentacle is behind me in the portrait in which prone,
before me the city planning
of sprawl as the institution and the Socratic walks.
Instead of the partitioning of partition bursary,
the swollen purse. North Perth is urban and yet
what city limits answer. No such
in the badgering prod. Front patio gewgaw
terra australis. Compatriot nonsense goads
bacterium to blossom in a terrific workshop
pent, the axe especially, for trading,
but growing a bludgeon greenhouse,
which is a crust. Golden Fitzroy, remorse the morning.
Hospital ungainful. Whose bodies the flighty
remonstration of a waning campus
deserted of December, huh? Whose quake
in the cutaneous? No more character, tote.
Barque of Laredo, inner salt lordly,
a skin compass, refrain from
dowse, that stylus catastrophe, taint sextant,
warm GPS. Warmer mayonnaise
in the vowels, but the sweet kind we don’t like.
Hence, he varnishes the gurney with surprise,
bent knees in pend.
Hustle Suckers cum President 2010 Exhaust Sound
To have written no poems until now, how revelation-like
an answering machine would it be, your voice again.
I guess there the person is adjunction,
bus forthright in its obedient departure’s disregard, the lip shrug,
the piercing horizon wet, finger on the automatic pen scratching the hide
of Albion hands outstretched. The contract the vena cava, the black hole
of his heart Blanche Dubois, waterfront, promenade, pier, the chalky pill
in duffle bag in plastic. Robert Johnson was the beginning
of something more influential than the contract.
To think of reign under Charles II: what would you have done.
What would your signature have done. They do get fired up when righteous writing.
But is decadence really giving up righteousness? Today, no,
but you bet today the batter on all these chicken wings
didn’t get eaten, you’ve left all the husks or “results” – bedside Malone
deathbed Rochester commentary – of the meat trade of biomechanics expired
on the answering machine having been smoked out,
but with a contemporary heritage of the drone, and what with the dead bloke
we’re all to abide on a retail packet because gall bladders,
perhaps ‘to smoke out’ is the wrong expression.
‘To smoke in’ better resembles the abyss.
Into each void gas throttles. Yesterday and from Señor Sam gained access
to the visual machine answer, hence all unvert upends. I press it, smoke pours out,
the connexion looked near red-headed, and like a lit match both strike point and flint
in form took fire, meaning fugue and laterally dextrous Queen Victoria,
Glenn Gould, perhaps other common wealth.
10 more? They’re marching about the training institutes like a cavity,
the venal firearms laterally dexterous.
Micky says it’s his hand-feet are shot. Micky, your white gloves
prove you’re ill, the plainness of hands is imperial always
in grand portraiture. Don’t fret. My question to all who have signed the penal colony
of Albion (or was it Mt. Aso?) how many more automobile deaths, deaths of
the present tense, having not been here, the conjecture? Arcadian no comment.
To room with Edward Gorey after All,
whom we call Al, because he likes it better as a monad.
My sincere thanks to Corey for sending me these excellent poems and allowing me to publish them for the first time on here.