Uncupped Hand

Softly in your uncupped hand
Sat among gnarls and wire cuts
Lustred heaps of calloused
Schoolyard savageries

Where it all began

And now?
An old brilliantine bruiser
Watching amber effervesce
Among motes and jangling slot machines
The slow afternoon sunshine
Bursts your weathered glare

You're there again but never seen
Parading about the ring in
Shifts, sleights, feints, dud turns
And ragged dead-hand rolls of
Grog and battered head bones;
These waxen scars laced down their side
Stretched loose toward the smallest knuckle
Are glossed with the smokey charm forgone
Of working men and bar room banter

These are the real show
(Soft)
The real you in your gently upturned
Uncupped hand.

Oh, they do go on!

"Con"

"ver"

"sa"

"tion"

Window on the 9.15 Frankston II

Foreign

Domed platform
Falling to every horizon
Scored with the husks
That gather among phantoms
At its edge
This ancestral stage burns
Beneath an unforgotten sun

I'm screwed to a chair
A warped agent of renewal
In the middle of a storm
Trying to lick the dust from my mouth
While dogs fight
For my tongue

Trying to lift myself
Out of myself
And call for an exit
For rain

Window on the 9.15 Frankston I

C'mon, just one.



It doesn't have to be hot.

Experimental P--m

This a response to Ted Hughes' poem View of a Pig (below).

Thumper

Pig on a barrow
Snouts a punch
Lolls back
Bares itself
Is bleeding
Is split
Is wild for it
This rain
These vicious flecks finding ground
Dissolving
Into one another

It's not going nowhere this morning
Dead
Its trotters stuck straight out
Pig on a barrow
Is a thumper

And its viewer knows
His subject
Fat wheat sack poundage
Laid out before him
Is too deadly factual for market
For shame
Before Him too dead
The sunk thumper's viewer is unabashed
He fancies a greased fairground piglet squealing
       between shadows harder to
Catch
Nimbler than a cat

The pig
More than dead
A thumper


View of a Pig

The pig lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, they said, as much as three men.
Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes.
Its trotters stuck straight out.

Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off.
It was like a sack of wheat.

I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this pig
Did not seem able to accuse.

It was too dead. Just so much
A poundage of lard and pork.
Its last dignity had entirely gone.
It was not a figure of fun.

Too dead now to pity.
To remember its life, din, stronghold
Of earthly pleasure as it had been,
Seemed a false effort, and off the point.

Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me – how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

Once I ran at a fair in the noise
To catch a greased piglet
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of metal.

Pigs must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse's –
They chop a half-moon clean out.
They eat cinders, dead cats.

Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.
I stared at it a long time. They were going to scald it,
Scald it and scour it like a doorstep.

Two sideways ways way too sideways