David Dick

facial hair anonymous

My moustache is the language you see right through:
the dire desire of uttering something significant
that cannot be heard through the rustling sounds, like humming,
though not the dolphin’s low pitched proclamation to potential mates preferred for
               the pleasure of the pursuit
as much as their well formed dorsal fin and belly-button ring.
Through me a galactic energy field that transgresses eons to prove its worth
is, gallantly, all that I have proclaimed physically, mentally, psychologically,

muttering: ‘Freud’s beard dancing before desirous bats decrying bountiful
               demonstration by Dionysus
– he of the wine fueled forehead vein that throbs in rhythm to the tubular bells of
               Hispanic hypnosis
leeched onto the long arm of the law to stand in for the justice that most ignore,
or, at least, can’t see, past that limb’s slack sleeve.
Anyway, reminds us of a duck who cannot maintain a V in formation and branches out
               to create a wonky N
that bewilders the bird watchers who call it a visionary, no, a billed prophet,
exclaiming the value of migration to areas not only warmer but moistly void of taxes.’

Unlike the mistaken maligned mallard,
we spot our misunderstanding in perfect synchronicity with November’s sudden
               change in climate,
knowing full well it might all be for charity,
not some rich man’s daughter of the same name
- she is worthy of our love –
but others who gravitate toward the funding we all approve of.
Maybe, then, we can be more caring;
cognizant of our conscious;
clear thinking of our creative conclusions;
gone past what devours doves in diachronic destitution,
ignorant that every bite predates the bitter end of world peace,
yes, that hoary old hazelnut spread that can only hermeneutically harass the idea of
               being chocolate.
If only what we saw through was the back of my skull instead of my rhetoric in
               its heretic hilarity that only believes it can
but probably can’t as it chugs and chugs past perfectly crafted, yet exiguous, facial hair.

David Dick is a PhD student at Monash University researching the poetry of John Ashbery. He writes poems when he should be studying. This is his first published piece of creative work.
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