LoungeLizard


James Walton #26 A Dairy Hand On a Hill

A Dairy Hand On a Hill

I milked a season
in the high range near Timboon
for a Bavarian named Rudi,

who built a Black Forest house
out of place against eucalypts
like those old special effects ,

a wobbly head stuck on the wrong body
land so fat the kelpies
pretended to bring the cows in,

spent their time fossicking
in earth as black as truffle
then red in deep Shiraz

His daughter would say
Look the Sky pours into the Sea
and that she didn’t love me,

was going back to Germany
so tanned she’d vanish in a paddock
I had to look close to catch,

an auburn dancing shimmer
she drifted in light then flew by
left me a demijohn stranded,

a becalmed catamaran
but sometimes she wrapped me in Sienna
just for a while You’re my Man.


Rob Schackne #87

Drones

“War is boring, we do it so you don’t have to.” Anon.

Do drones drink beers at
their consoles and fall asleep
dreaming of other games
they’d rather be playing
like the ticker-tape parades
come back on a big winner
spinning wheels on a Chevy
Bel-Air and bounce with joy
same as that nice girl sitting
at the table now looking down
her lips wet with glue for you
so what’s the banana agenda
tell me do sorties get messed up
wait please talk to me a minute
what seem to be the requirements?

Robert Verdon, #310, Imaginary Friend

Up comes
the egg-white
sun.
I call you
from my fancied
roost.
The phone’s
a new-laid egg —
Smooth, warm
and fouled.

Its yolk is yellower
Than the sun.
Its dial tone
pecks at your silence.

Within the shell,
I hear
you brood
about me.

You hold me
in,
A weighted
embryo.

But cloaca-fresh
the phone
still bears
my breath
alone.

Jeltje Fanoy #61 meditation

I saw myself, sitting
cross-legged, on a cushion
in my bedroom, as

mindful as, this
could go on forever,
as calm as,

the heater on, my clothes
ready for work, the very
meaning of my existence

having the time, or making
the time to, knowing
how to, or

never finding out, what
it’s like, not
to be alone, was there

any way of knowing

Michele Morgan #261 steiréa

left channel, typing
right channel
birdsong and more rain

Danny Gentile #53 – Coal

Somewhere behind
the standing shadow
desolate with grief
is a returning light
and a flame reviving

It is a brooch of flame
revisiting the heart
carried low by history
and slung with earth
from a long journey

It is a brooch of flame
in a flower budding
but not into a tree
for the slow reaping
of ideas bent there

No sharper a dream
on waking to the coal
you held like pumice
to the breast pocket
of a worn out jacket

Rough as the cinder
you hold there now
a residue of memory
a stone like a rune
you always cling to

A tree tended gently
gives an only flower
worthy of this flame
for it simply consumes
what life it was given

Then quietly recedes
to the stem and root
as a monument retains
an inscribed solitude
worn bare over time

We covet the stone
more than any flame
it is rebirthed again
as humility will offer
a gift more genuine

James Walton #24 Wonga Vine Breakout

Wonga Vine Breakout

It’s just too glamorous
over wrought like resurgent 80’s fashion
blonde tufts beguiling straggling bits
a sudden blank shave
where something’s crashed down
a stampede of suckle curling the world
clambering in trees swooning syrup
the scented air as thick as a buttered palette
as honey on home baked bread

Robert Verdon, #309, born in the eighties

at best
as you writhe in the nudity of your birth

your new free world is a rotten pomegranate
better had it been squeezed dry, but still it drips
as the goth Edith Sitwell noted forty years earlier
quietly fulgent at night like a sugar cube crushed in the dark
the fuzzy picnic of the market with its lissome tubas and formula grown-ups
at first soporific, soon to be ardent
is your artist trying to draw with creosoted pastels
a war on all as time goes on

others were born in the eighties
that decade to be expunged from human history
but your eighties
is reaction thick as the dead underfoot
I am no camera to poke into such quicklime depths
who am I, no one listens to me, as soon none will listen to you
but now, in a glow of sugar, far away like a coal seam, I scent it

spontaneously burning …


Kerri Shying R # 89 Chan Retreat

Chan Retreat

wrote it off my page
the whole slope card
at last

the first of all the pressures
to be neat
to be clean
to be helpful

be a doer it
takes a company
of angels

or the punters want their money back
want your head below the parapet
want want

leaving it behind
takes a company
of angels

here in plentiful supply
the sunshine
pansies in the lawn
beets
atop the dirt browning
in the line up dinner

coughing dog
voices beyond doors
taking care while I get sleep

each one another world
a universe of plenty

that book
of peace and quiet
with my name
in it
everywhere
be a doer it
takes a company
of angels

or the punters want their money back
want your head below the parapet
want want

leaving it behind
takes a company
of angels

here in plentiful supply
the sunshine
pansies in the lawn
beets
atop the dirt browning
in the line up dinner

coughing dog
voices beyond doors
taking care while I get sleep

each one another world
a universe of plenty

that book
of peace and quiet
with my name
in it
everywhere

Mikaela Castledine #261 Calling myself a poet

I was a poet almost before
I was anything else
not child not girl not daughter not sibling
to be sure these things are set down early
sometimes against your will

But all the other things that come
from the workings of your own endeavour
or the strange arrangements of your mind
came after I was already a poet
careful stackings of lettered blocks
declamatory statements from bed platforms
spotting lyricism with sharp eyes
from every vantage

Whether or not I am this very moment writing
I always call myself a poet
I don’t have a problem with it

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