surfing some weightless valence of privilege and
on the esplanade at St Kilda. Sun batters
a quincunx of big, deliquescent palms. The harbour’s
all Piaget Chronograph. Blackened teeth
of leisure craft, their long, inverted, evening roots.
The exteriorized event space, man,
then the “looking you” gone mini-mini,
then a motor north of your liver beebled.
Blasé Swedes at the long pier’s midpoint.
Luna Park’s whitewashed trestles creak,
its facade a hack of Lynchian cruel humour.
For “great, great injustice,” Castro, today, apologized
Cubans, some cricket happened, and I’d felt wrung
dry of Bedeutung, despite Malkmus
warbling as the Tullamarine shuttle glid into
ellipsoid and weird, alternate dandelions
sprayed yellow in pure pigment over the median —
moulded plastic, luggage rack —
what’s that pang of insult when someone’s Samsonite
spreads ham on your rucksack? —
the unvaliant mind leans out, confected palm, Tasman
Sea, range life, whaling vessels, to light
momentarily on a desiccated rookery,
tchotchke hatchlings low-hanging
fruit to the cored-out auk.
The colony’s contracting, it’s warmer, on average, overall.
Dear Bio-Tech, we’ll consent, barring unforeseen… etc.,
to augmentation, for a fee. The tone and texture’s ’79.
Ken Babstock has won numerous awards. He published his fourth collection, Methodist Hatchet, last year.