David Dick


a need to assemble something to say that I had

Liturgies of professional wails
exorcise fauna’s cosmetic treatment
bound by hooks, the corners of the mouth
in rictus, force fed stimulants—
they’re shy of the usual contractual obligations.
Never knew better, he stammered,
the pharmacist, feasting on sloth shins
sprinkled with grated prosciutto
new season protein
(restorative agents to battle the grind),
agreed with a complex toss of the head.
Nah, they just need a bit more time mate,
ashamed of the flaccid stance
when the flow comes back:
daemons critical of chunky canoes
the hens hand out—this flimsy fabric
goes superb with an imbibed Merlot
made in Camberwell, bottled in Oakleigh, sold
in Prahran near Crosbie Rd (always
assumed to be named for Bill,
but these are old-world grapes
wearily laced with sulphur).

Drunk, nobody is hurt, though
trauma comes in many forms
lined up along the top of a portly brick wall
suspect to high winds & Carlton can
decals knocked back
fine impersonations of Hansel
shattering his skull in pieces
gorged by broken rhymes.
The question sounded like ham
whipped against leather: Who
is the Queen of the Fruitbats?
We know how to build websites of genealogy
but forget which creature to spare
for the sake of the botanical pergolas.
& only her directive can save us.
Absent apostles lost to erosion
avalanches, don’t have a place here—
it’s all too bare, but not rare enough
to find what could be under the air
recalling your inability to buy flowers.
The need remains, the work crumples.
I’m a jazzman. I don’t remember what I play.
It’s for you to transcribe my intimate yelp.



David Dick is a poet from Melbourne, Australia.
 
 
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