David Dick



busing to mirage

605 north somewhere called CA:
deserts, from here to the 9s,
scrawling dehydrated daydreamed Vegas
hedonists still coming all over
defiant Jack, about to leap from his box.
Yet, doctors’ hospitals stood in
the whey of that protein,
activating the hallucinogenic garlic
cayenne pepper metabolic deception
doused in syrup sweetly gassed
by a sceptic’s sense of sexy,
whose coffins toboggan
cracked freeways carting the gentry,
whose stirrups be bibles,
whose reins be the veined necks of geese.
Husky voices rise: hallelujah!
& are swallowed in the space
between the Earth & the Sun
where meaning resides balanced
on a noise & a dictionary.
In Barstow I found them,
knowing they can only conceive
the sun as an infrequent rectangle
lit by the gold of sandy reflection,
speckled like a sneeze
in a night club bathroom,
& I don’t believe this
to be Sandman’s stuff.



window

Defenestrate desire
                              … ah, Corso, you cuckold!
throwing through panes propelled projects,
dejected auspice
over audacious precipice.
                                              My knotted tongue
                                                                            my visionaries of vertigo,
                                                                                           my seeing-stone revelation—
tossed into twilight
                                       to adamantine avenue.

Virgin vampire saints
                               (does Edward Cullen sound like Nephi?
                                              Is a werewolf that guy, Moroni?)
& residential home economist recipes
of jackets
                root beer floats
                               honey humbled cakes
                                              blue-cooked sweets
                                                             Halloween tainted teeth
                                                             like brown bricks,
parallel pinpoint pricks on bell’s neck.

                (As God gives grace
                                                             they’ll fuck after their confederation.)

It’s all tennis-shoe-time-travel-conversion:
Chris Heimerdinger’s irresolvable
missionary metamorphosis,
                his little laminate failures
                                              (books, I mean).

My responsive yelp: ‘Fly down      Love!
Faithful comfort left
                               & we forgot to feature Faith.
                               My archaeology is cracked.’

The lost gospel poems?
Bring ‘em back in the open portal
                to let ‘em go again,
where air stirs curtain drapes,
                                              like fleshy dancers
mimicking perfect The fall.
                                                               Forget Lucifer.

My elements expelled
tumbling time & tissue memory,
partial property to some distraction
of lingo longingly slipping past
                                                             my supreme wisecracks.
Fathomless, a thousand serpent feathers
dashes past Romantics: my heart
hurtles Hope,
                cascades Charity,
                               harasses Humour.
My god disguised
                               like garden-wear
                               stashed behind a grill.
                               Hide’n’seek I found you,
                                              your American language
                                              didn’t suit an Indian’s mouth.
My pane
then the plummet—
prayed through time, no, just air.



after wedding

diggers rest sun bury
but forget to wreck service
whales whose wail warbles
edm jams & pan flute cringe
the neon crust of hangovers
lost amidst spectral imbalance
colder than peruvian dusts
i had another line but
forgot what it was in
horizons & scraps of sky
overloaded on vitamin
minerals strung out on muses
& angels playing tag with no
less than 4 grandchildren
all wearing red blazers
whom chevrolet their chemical
hearts with no concept of the verb
let alone its conjugation’s
spacious (specious?) glass walls
shielding no linguistic devotions
begging autocorrected audience
automatically aerodynamic in lieu




David Dick is a Melbourne poet.
 
 
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