Tide
I’m pulling back.
Goof slides! Clown bites! Wheels to roll wonderful me
to a finish line that some bastard deleted seven
centuries back. And forth. And back. Marching orders
makin’ whoopee in a cattle stack/how
they trickle down, leak their penalties… For?
Aktionismus? Catwalk strut – you so ugly? – Is how
the plot thickens? – Garden variety string (beans) my
journey in knots? Extraction negotiable if (1) your ticket
has not expired (though obviously, purchased in ’68,
it has) (2) by all accounts you are/are not/might be the nasty
piece of work you’re purported to be from which (work)
comes musk & mayhem & a mockery of much
that should in progress be soup, delicious, & it is if, as
promised, on Tuesday no dog (including yours, especially
yours) shall have its day on Wednesday I’ll come
to your party if Lucy doesn’t snub Hunky
meets Dory they make a wish the wish
is a Will to Power à la what’s-his-name, Nietzsche
that nag: Clown slides! Goof bites! I’m booking for nil,
for errata. I’m shy a shoe. I’d like to be true! What’s
Rudolf got that I don’t? Ditto Tom? Ditto them all!
Those miserable gossips. They’ve got it coming who dare
to label perfect me compunctious, punctilious, pugnacious,
a common swell scooting on runners, on a sled to Hell
loaded with gifts of frankincense & myrrh. Purr, I say,
& pitch them in sacks. Sink them in deep water. After
I bid adieu to the three Mabels there’s always seven more
demanding at the very least a peck on the cheek, the CAT
scan equivalent of a soiled bib, a husbandry all aflutter, a
mad fool’s mutter. Mothers McCree & McFib surely you
can understand why – Spoof rides! Circus fights! –
I’m pulling back.
Originally from Detroit, Philip Hammial has lived in Australia since 1972. He has had 37 poetry collections published by Penguin, Puncher & Wattmann, Island and others. He has represented Australia at 14 international poetry festivals.
