Two
Poems
by
Corey Wakeling
If
they were to undress in our company
the
universities would smuggle pigeons
in
their pigeon holes, and the automatic doors
of
faulty codes would simmer under
red
light. Marvellous certitude this: he lay
right
down beside her with a hand in her
hair
making pinching motions. Not to
be
expressed emphatically in the company of
enthusiasts. Carnations
and desert roses are
the
secret. Your mother calls to see if you’re
okay,
I say I think so. Satchel-and-all did
she
just about leave us, but the anachrony between
the
portentous and the drunk jogger must be
seen
as the soft pinching motion on the base of
the
head of our dinner. That’s
all
I wanted to say of the bicameral instance of
us
rushing to our girls. That is all, sleepy priest.
That
is all, devoted scholar. The whorehouse
is
deserted this hour. The mail is retrieved;
scattered. There
is something upsetting in your
fortune
to do with the incorrect usage of the
semicolon. For
your ponderous eyes — by that I
mean
the interrogative mode of the tracker set on
the
evidence of visitors to your house, that the
walls
are not mere walls, that carnations and desert
roses
scatter like mail — to the vault, I say.
America
I
am more and more
convinced
that Americans
are
morbid. Of their acquaintance,
I
convince more Americans that I am more
and
more repulsed. They like this about me.
I
like that they like this about me.
But
where am I to put this repulsion
Itō
Hiromi calls ‘maltreatment’?
Ten
great families fill these lands.
We
are all second cousins, that is, somewhat
fascinated
by each other’s biographies.
Swimming
in each other’s quick sand, or ooze.
There
aren’t even any bodies yet.
Something
about today reminds me of WWI poetry.
I
would like to name WWI poetry:
“The
Seriousness of Defenestration’s Corpse.”
America
is regaining their WWI in poetry and who am I
to
say, “the bodies are heaping up”? Moreover,
of
a seriousness and cases of posttraumatic
stress
disorder (PTSD)? To prove with yeast, we have today.
I
do not even have the right camera to take something down.
Luckless,
I want everyone to be waiting for me when I arrive
home.
Home
is my mother, and my mother is America.
I
want America to be waiting for me when
I
arrive, Mum. I want Mum to be waiting for
me
when I arrive in America. There is a Daily
Show
stress disorder where everyone is laughing,
but
all that one can glean of the subject
is
a Cadillac purchased from overseas sprayed
with
anonymous body parts. Stephen Colbert
is
murdering a dead president wearing a mask
at
a luncheon with the current president.
Will
I ever get this article about the frontline skirmishes
of
this recuperation of WWI done? I keep getting
stuck
on the soldiers as I saw them myself! Crack shot
reserves
taking out too many friendlies, photographing
the
bodies, sending poems home to their wives and
lovers. This
is nothing like Lubang in the Phillipines.
These
Americans are the opposite. They as yet do not
know,
however persistent they are, when it is the war starts.
New
work by Corey Wakeling appears
in Overland, Cordite, Shampoo, foam:e, Famous Reporter and The
Geek Mook. He
lives in Melbourne, Australia.