20-20

Sydney, Aust.

you’re not conducive to writing.

there, I said it

it stand as bleak and drawn out as that accusatory whiteness -

the page it’s own sweet testament to the ignominy of another blank verse.

seeking, as we do, the trappings of familiar writing,

we’ll find nothing hand-in-hand with challenge

as they await their scaffold in the dawn –

laughing children and slippery copulations

plague the loose associations to horror and the taste of oranges,

squeezed just so from the bank of should-be-tolds –

and I’ll laugh at your clumsy assertions that there’s a truth

in all this receivership and reiteration.

Keep greeting the convalescent talents of my interest

and run, my heart pounding in your knees to keep that

moment behind all the great sculptures as I, their remnants

force into my own moulds.