Daniel John Pilkington

First Syllables

apple (red)
Baby,                    our lonely
appeals read

chasing mean
desire’s                sea creator
chancing (green)

Eat it,
forgetting            the dead
earth, bite
for getting us said

grave &
grace                    (ample and

                even if the glances

/ glyphic
                highway streaks of
/ blur
                the jars in which their brushes argue
/ order, age, thickness

                the paper bag syncopations
/ triangulating
                what none can see

                yet, they diagram

                their charcoal obsolescence
/ squeaking
/ soft
                exotic blurbs, that I might
/ torture them
                with an eyelash of divinity

/ thus
                I pretend I believe I am
                your ceiling
/ foam, the air in your red
/ heart
                to hallux, hallux to heedlessness: 20 seconds and
                I love you

/ my kimono
                opens at the chest
                like a feminine aphorism

/ my translator
                washes me in antiseptic
                joie de vivre

/ my animal
                snaps for the singularity

                the elephants singing in their graveyards
                the wolves distributing their income

                the memories of bone
/ mandalas
                from the imperatives of European vacations

/ bin
                the attitude
                the aviators
                the avuncular Americanisms

                show me your need to evaporate
/ quote
                your anesthetists
                your fascists of the imagination

                show me
/ their feet
/ their hands
/ their swallowing

                hunger for the black fruit
/ the stone
                greener than the shadow
/ ripening
                their intestinal inferno
                with mesmeric impatience

/ my kimono
                opens at the chest
                like an evangelical agitation

/ my animal

                entropic bliss, the moth that
/ burns
                a facsimile
                of the last Malevich icon
/ burns
                a facsimile
                of your right thumb

                as the streetlight palpitations
/ palpitate
                where my armpit spiders

                what we think is
                what we could never admit

                what we could never admit
/ who it was
                who gave birth to me

Daniel John Pilkington is a poet from Melbourne. His poetry has appeared in Cordite and Unusual Work. He currently studies writing at the University of Melbourne.
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