Story

Story.



i’ll tell you what really happened.
i woke up, wiping crap from my face,
opened the bathroom door with my toothbrush,
stepped out into a marshmallow hail.

let me wipe the sprog from my face.
it’s a good story. listen:
“stepping out into the marshmallow hail
i went to cut the thistle with a chainsaw…

no, it’s a good story. listen,
can’t you see i’m tryna talk?
“i went to cut the thistle with a chainsaw
and then i threw the magic beans…

can’t you see i’m tryna talk?
god! it’s such a mess!
and then i threw the magic beans
into the howling night of britney’s thighs;

oops! sorry about the mess!
pushing on regardless, i had to get out
into the howling night of britney’s thighs...
fuck! can't you see i'm talking?

i'll push on anyway. i had to get out,
back to the marshmallow. what i meant was…
oi! look at me when i’m talking!
it was hard to cut down. it was a magic thistle.

back to the marshmallow. what i meant was,
well, it kinda looked like marshmallow,
it was hard to cut down. it was a magic thistle...
i seem to be stuck in the bathroom.

i mean it kinda looked like marshmallow.
my fairy godmother never came,
she's stuck in the bloody bathroom.
sorry. had to get out. let’s start again.

my fairy godmother never came;
she said she had a magic toothbrush.
sorry. i had to get out. can we start again?
i wanna tell ya what really happened.

Frank

Frank

To watch may be deadly. Terror wavers in your pupil’s frame.
Peace is wrought by twists of phrase, sublime sense writhes
and rolls me to its edge. Patient for your breath to mist
this glass, my body arches agonies written in your work,
your spine, your honeyed flesh. My tongue forks its desire, curls
to reach your proffered gift: transubstantiation, word made flesh,
flesh become your word. Dare I mouth insanity so holy yet so sweet?

Instead, I wring each sentence of its richness. A wash
of rhythm drenches my depths; history swirls
its chaos: St. Peters, Orange, Callan Park. Within these walls
our beings wrap, entwine in binding light. Forms, embodied, ghost
themselves, behold a prophet, crazed and bashed - I taste his love,
his death, shuffle through his shame. His words, my mouth,
whispered like a prayer: he is loving us now, he is loving all.


.* The phrases “To watch may be deadly,” and “he is loving us now, he is loving all” are taken from Part 5 (“Homosexual”) of “Ward Two” by Francis Webb (in Caps and Bells; The Poetry of Francis Webb; Michael Griffith and James A. McGlade (eds.) (North Ryde: Angus and Robertson, 1991))

The T-shirt Body Workout

The T-shirt Body Workout

Judgement Day is coming; sculpted horsemen strut
on washboard abs and classic V shape forms. They probe
with rigour, demanding mankind’s full account of afternoons.

You’re not in shape?  Fate’s envelope is licked and sealed.
The mirror of God knows you wholly, eternally unshirted;
no sweet salvation waits for those who dare not sweat.

Depend on how you look (and feel) for first and final reckoning.
Virtue only swells in manly ripples, being’s plenty
told in inches. Winter’s screen shall bear no refuge, when unmanned

arms dangle from the sleeves like cooked spaghetti,
God’s dread henchmen watch them dangle, each lack
a damning revelation. Harken to their scripture:

fill out your shirts, answer the Word, its Work upon you.
Pectorals and obliques the book of your existence, in which is read
each day’s regime. Behold embodied self, the Judge is out

your verdict’s in. Stand and flex, else tremble. The scales poise and dip.




* Using elements from an article from the June/July issue of Men’s Fitness (2006)