An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
When the Clock Strikes Twelve
The animal that's under me
is over me as well. No idea
why, or how.
It could have been a stitch.
It could have been a witch. In any case
you've only to look to see that royal sloth
gone feral is why the pundits have ignored the Prince's
cache of slippers, the net effect of which will be
a glut of oomph as, harnessed, I pull the Queen's
pumpkin carriage across a rope bridge & up
to the ruined castle where Dad's fertility doll
is in a bit of strife, all fourteen cancerous breasts
sheared off like wool. Ba Ba Black Sheep, home
from my roaming just in the nick he's tubed
& wired for space, a 9.5 on the Richter scale
convulsion, a shrieking mandrake alarm, all
of the King's horses & all of the King's men...
Under me, they're over me as well.
You born for all time.
Did you ever live someone else?
What did he say, that man you pulled from the river?
"Cottoned too often, I've never been silked." What
about that story about where he'd been before he wore
that yellow star? You want to know how we got Daddy
to fry those eggs, I'll tell you how. It was that up-country
move that had us cookin'. So when it come to marryin'
what did I declare for? – "No duck & weave, no feel
at all." Consequently & therefore to give up lunacy I've
a good mind to. A whole show for my very own self?
Surely not worthy. No grab is fair. When Mama wants
skin she'll say: "Twist to the right first, then
to the left". It means (always) the death of my ride.
My babe's speed none of your god damned business.
Any trick what garners folks is abhorrent to me.
It's a crime on my person. It truly is. I'll wear this wig
24/7; you can like if you're smart. Take 2: Look out for
Captain Boy, his ten dollar gig will have you runnin'.
Want my advice? Side step that big motor. You think
I'm croonin' just to hear myself? It's not me; it's them
inner voices again. SHUT UP! O my tooth – ruined
by a bad chew. Fancy a feed? Said before, will say again:
"No hunger here." No point in genuflecting, you
down soon enough. Flyblown aunts, goose-necked uncles
knocking at your door. They want to bury: "Come out
whoever you are & face the jelly." Take 5: What
them don't know: It's peak church: You born for all time.
The boy with a star splashed on his face
is clutching a serpent, symbol
of something, I don't know what. And
I don't know why or where they're going
if anywhere, these thirty floating corpses
(human) in the sky, not sky-blue, no, it's
marine green & down there somewhere:
tubas harrumphing, a symphony by Neptune. In this
& in the next (movement) the ocean is hidden
which of course implies that the creatures
immersed in it are hidden too. So where does that leave
the floating corpses (human)? I don't know. What
I do know is that when I come to your house
for dinner tonight it won't be ready, as usual. And so,
as always, I'll have to cook it myself. If only you knew
what's good for you you'd keep those blackbirds
in that pie, not let them fly around in the kitchen
shitting everywhere, making nests in our hair. In
a tattooed spiral around your left arm, shoulder to wrist
is the alphabet. On your right, shoulder to wrist, writ
small, the Gettysburg Address. So how about a bit
of emancipation for the kitchen slaves? This
was supposed to be a sonnet, but as it's already nine lines
too long will anyone object if we continue with an epiphany
of some sort? – Stabbed with a miniature Eiffel the hissing
cobra on the stove slowly expires. We might as well
have it for dinner. System pop.
Philip Hammial has had 30 poetry collections published. His poems have appeared in 31 poetry anthologies (in seven countries) & in 120 journals in fifteen countries. He has represented Australia at fourteen international poetry festivals, most recently at Poetry Africa 2016 in Durban, SA. In 2009/10 he was the Australian writer-in-residence for six months at the Cité International des Arts in Paris.