One Each.

Sliver

To me a sliver must always
recall the heady halcyon days
of youth, and Magic cards.

Slivers came in every colour,
black and white and red all over,
as well as blue and green.

Each sliver’s stat-augmenting skill
applied to all its kin til killed,
the whole the sum of parts.

And though I sold or gave away
my cards some years ago, today
I think of slivers still.

I think of slivers, old Urza,
the fruitful Elves of Llanowar,
and dark Dark Rituals,

the stench of the Phyrexian slag,
the noble angels, evil hags
on which our decks were built.

And looking back, though it ain’t purty,
I recollect: God we were nerdy,
but nerdy we were gods.

Sonnet of Sleep

Last night, as I lay lying in a deep
and downy, doona’d slumber, there arose
such phantasms as manifest in sleep
(or SBS late-night slash early shows) –
a night parade of hypothetic selves,
all variations on the theme of me,
I saw a mop-haired tubby boy of twelve,
a thinner, stubbled self at twenty three;
a me with thicker gut, but thinner hair,
and one who held a toddler at his hip,
me paper-skinned and snow-haired in a chair,
me in some hospital, placed on a drip.
Though all along I lay in bed, I knew,
I, from my dream awakening, thought them true…

Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots

Remembering rapt and rigorous attention,
how we sat in silence, as the speakers hissed
wails and warbles from whereabouts unknown.
Approaching Pavonis Mons, preaching the word
of Wayne, wild-eyed warrior-poet, grey
hair and heartful, heliotropic sound
issued forth to function as finally, this:
a bridge not yet burnt by being forgotten.

Love Song (or, I Can Haz Peach Flannel Trousers?)

Michelangelo rubs the window-panes
rubs the chimneys

time yet for
toast and tea

Michelangelo will wonder,
his hair rich and thin

should I?
should I?

I, white in the lamplight,
with light brown hair

should I then?
should I begin?

at dusk through the smoke
lonely men lean out of windows

while sunsets and teacups
trail along the screen

I grow my hair
I dare

peach flannel trousers
I have them

reading log

The first book I read this year took four weeks to finish. The second has taken four days. If I can keep up this pace, I’ll read the next in a little over twelve hours, the following in two, and the fifth in about fifteen minutes. While the kettle boils I can read my sixth, and while opening a packet of Tim Tams I can polish off the seventh. I can scratch my arse and read the eighth, clear my throat and finish the ninth, and - in the blink of an eye - the tenth - !

Chekhov

The story (so it goes)
is that Anton Chekhov,
asked by a colleague
his method of composition,

picked up an ashtray
and, brandishing it, said,
“Tomorrow I will write
a story called The Ashtray.”

When all we have
is what we have on hand,
even a dirty, ashen saucer
is a welcome friend.

at the back of the moon
hollow, for all we know

the Platonic form of the cave
a perfect soup spoon, a soap dish

filled with the shadows of astronauts
dancing on the sunlined lip

casting silhouettes of long bodies
through no atmosphere

Scorpion trails me for three days. Fitting we should meet here, in this place. Sun scorches clouds to tatters, offering no relief from the heat. My heart races but my mind is still. I stand with my back to the sea, not ten metres from where he stands. Watching me.

“It’s time,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

We run towards one another. The sun keeps shining.

muffled reading, overheard

Was she waiting there,
pretty, stupid?
Of course she was -
I’d done it myself.

Antibiotics and penicillin on the wall -
how to know it was safe?
You must understand:
no one got hurt. People got better.

If you want me to tell the whole truth,
the politicians should at least allow me another gun.
You must understand:
I was not safe.

I use my own hand. What is your calling?
We strive and we live and perhaps we all die.
You must know this:
I was an American.

TJ first tomorrow.

tea-making discourse for two with unresolved tension

- Tea?
- Yes, please.
- What sort? Earl Grey, English Breakfast, Chamomile…?
- Er, Earl Grey is fine, thanks.
- Sugar?
- Just one.
- Mistletoe?
- What?
- Just kidding.
- Oh… ha.
- Unicorn?
- Would it fit in the cup?
- You’re right. Best not, then.
- Got any arsenic?
- God! Do you have to be so morbid all the time?
- What? I was kidding!
- Well ha fucking ha.
- Jeez! What’s your problem?
- Nothing.
- I was just…
- Forget it. There’s your tea.

Handy Hints

Keeping the wolf from the door plays an important role in the life of any good housewife or househusband. At the first signs of lupine incursion upon the property of yourself and your beloved, one is advised to take up arms against this rag-pelted, skin-and-bone sea of troubles and by opposing end them. Though specialist small arms and rifles are available (provided local licensing laws are met), there are many items in the modern home that may serve just as well in a pinch. Some of our favourite ad-hoc anti-wolf weaponry include: brooms; whisks; rolling pins; large stones; medium stones; bricks; boots; bow and arrows. Further, a stock of arsenic-laced meat can form a handy addition to any home larder - just be sure not to mix them up come dinnertime for little Tony! Ah!

The imaginary passengers of the forking plane are like you and me - accustomed to taking the wonder of flight for granted, they sleep, eat, read. One or two, however, may glance out across a breakfast terrain, take in the steaming calderas of coffee cups, the arid, crumbless expanses of table, the mountain range of scramble eggs rising up from toasted mesa, golden ropey roads run glistening from honeypot to teacup, and then - blackness.