A blond one to visit I
The sleeping dragon of the TV guide scribbled title
At eleven thirty am after her painting class
This suburban Monday morning.
Facebook chimes guide me!
Ah to enter the unravelling helix of mine
Microwaveable treasure…
Treasure like the gap in Monique’s whitened teeth.
Treasure like the cloud column that apparated in Moses’ tent mouth…
A cigarette propped in hers? Oh!
Lung cancers, atrophied organs but oh!
Trump runs for presidency and Tony Jones is on tonight.
Blows on my cheek and lips my lifted brows burnt still
Like fire from oil left by an Apache on a hospital building roof.
She comes, blond. Another Jurassic ice sheath
To be splintered from my neurotic arctic milk station.
A glowing hair lasered dwarfette
Come to see if she can tend to this Vesuvian dragon
Game Of Thrones DVDs and bloody hammer in hand.

Minutes…dead unreal Moses…molasses…treasure…

… certainly this August the albino giraffes will have something to the manic possums to say, their tree top writer’s festivals to attend to. Gum drop gum drop ghost’s blanket in the snow the soccer stadiums rot while the Isis fighters grow…

…Reading Jules Verne in high school, that air ship that travelled around the world, a platform in the sky with its floating library. Nemo’s submarine, a place to escape. The park by the preschool in the backyard of that dilapidated and graffitied house where I used to get vertigo just looking up at the flag pole imagining a huge humpbacked whale at the top and being terrified by the thought. This huge dripping thing all stomach and barnacle like a brain from the sea but all one hemisphere dribbling. The fear of huge things looming above, skyscrapers as though they carry the fear of standing on top of them with them. The sinister expression of the indigenous boy who bullied me. Father’s wings…

…Ohhh! Grab the wheelbarrow, call Bobby dentist, granddaddies forgotten his NRL tips again. Get your head out of Doctor what ol mopey Sue and his out of astrology books Richard Dawkins quick you Facebook status honey crumpet head and away from his metal detected football field hieroglyphics less he never submit them and fall like a dishevelled jasper joyce, a comet worm into a hospital slop bucket and never find his cosmic NRL gods bizarre plan and never submitting them go mad ol Listerining dental flossing pizza stain jacket diabetied grandpa pa poo pap…

…First social discussions of sex. The boys on the basketball court passing the smart phone around. Women and horses, sucking and swallowing amidst the braying. Boasting of sex with year seven girls on the old goat trail up to the school hall, awkward pixelated flicks, hunched backs red eyes and moans. The one time lawyer last seen abusing scratchers of a Spotlight sign…

…This boys’ never gonna make it. Young drake, young football star when young Cleopatra smacked him in the jaw with her jumpity fragrant sledge. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oink! Oink! Oink! Wattle brush wattle brush mother flush lickin her lips Egyptian blue bottle mantis went violet bowling sold the precious dragon bike in Atlantis newly bought stealing it with this young drakes best friend in the pitch of night carding and pegging it for joy beloved high school chums left to me beloved Kerouac the big games starting the winter flys’ in the cupboard learnin cello my wings are cold sniff sniff sniff…

…What will she say when she like sunny snow arrives? Get up you oaf! You dream time snake! You Easter yowie! Under my semen in my dreams of stardom the flowers I carried like a pulsating tear of necropolis instead her face glimmers under cat yowl drunks my ragtag friends racing fishies luminescent junk looking up to the world. Achoo! Choo choo I’m a Quetzalcoatl sneeze with no handkerchief. Someday I’ll be a police chief of this crummy universe…

…An evacuated tennis court cries statically charged miniaturized furry moons. Hear me Arthurian legends! There you are drifting under the security lighting a ghost of yourself a stalactite’s shadow pulling bowling pins from your skin. An alien race and the Cleopatra of nothing…

Throughout the spring
                                  he was followed
by his own steaming shadow.
It passed labyrinths to him
without calling first and all the while his brothers grew
                                  far away in silver trees
                                  that had been cut down
                                  to be materials for things
like ambulances and green French décor city apartments,
trees which had reassembled themselves somehow and them
finding their way back to their soil and finding it while never finding it again.
He lived in a tree house
in the cross of their branches
and they allowed him to use their former uses
as wings against the ever sharpening shadow.
He was like the shadow’s dog with only a leash for a name.
An eggnog for galahs in a time when only the sky was soothing.
                                  Chameleon spoon brain.
                                  Dark armoured hero.

 View this poem on The Disappearing »


Joel Ephraims reads 'To The Girls with the Sledgehammers...'