Tom Brami

Doubt drawn at a low vantage point

It’s not a giant dog that bursts
the ovum in paw to hand, this finger
emerging and causing convulsions
like Galen’s sex laws or speech bubbles.
Nor could these inner sermons negotiate
the circular ruins of your caricatures,
featuring one hand on elderly bones
and the foot to mouth tax syndrome.
How archaic the b to the Englishman’s eye.
How Cartesian of you to follow the French
no-time like a low-hum party trick.
The admonitions guide the feeding hand,
as if it were a pencil case that spoke
and not the livestock it concealed.
Kirrikiri not sound but sustainable idea
like sunlight kept in a jar to watch closely,
forgetting the cloud coloured paradox
that twists like a seashell trace
where even skyward doubt juts in.


retell the story again
said ivory casket
watching the corpse and colossi

Slavers! Tulips! The Japanese!
Golf is corporal punishment
inching towards an ear
best left with the mourner’s
September sunburn
and inflated

O - admitted under death’s t/ropes,
the irksome lavender flower
rustling the ninth,
the bull, grows
anthropomorphic antler
for rhino show and
aviary symbol.

thus the corpse to casket:
Be not abacus nor ancillary organ
organised as phalanx or hexagonal law.
Keep flesh nor knick-knack
from worm’s arse,
so indistinguishable
from the mouth!

Tom Brami teaches, reads, writes, and skateboards in Melbourne.
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