Keri Glastonbury’s chapbooks are Hygienic Lily (Five Islands Press) and Super-regional (Vagabond Press). She currently studies at the University of Technology-Sydney. newer brisbane sonnet: except it's sydney, design & architecture cafe. desk-top publishing dilettante (so much, so bad) as i also like poems difficult traditionally to 'understand' they all want their signs – so whatchagonnado? it's true i used poetry as a 'safe' and 'daggy' space – a dubious milieu (hardly spidery & druggy) there was a snap freeze & another book launch while you were gone; i guess it's a trajectory lunch sonnet: lunchtime, you are inexorably approaching! & it's up & down escalators that really move me. is it the feng shui of internal email? inside the body the organs are glistening & air-conditioned entrails line the ceiling. it's always-already an immersive experience, like this soup – years of instructional catch up collapse to which green-lipped mussels mouth (advantage receiver). sorry if i'm setting a bad example if it gets awkward we'll just lunge for that thermos full of tea. cuz, even when we use our chopsticks in synch it's a clunky move. donna, downstairs: um, it's two up two down with floral wallpaper (imagine a rack of bed & breakfast pamphlets – in the entrance!) there's a yellow glass window & light the colour of old velour fashionable flatmates come traipsing home late though i'm soaking my whites in sard's wonder & wondering if swedish furniture would be botched in less complicated hands (those orange squares you painted what did you call them?) it's a knack, this bringing background to the fore painters have it some poets too (more secret stuff!) only post-it-notes more proliferate as disclosure mosquitos into sticky messages & opportunities appear like swellings on my wrists your looks of flummox and surprise! university: affable & un-integrated, the kinda manic activist the academy seeks to befriend or she plays homage to the code while we act as if it doesn't apply (the public secret of the laconic) joyous abjection of lunch (neither fully inside or outside the body of the day) while students dream of documentary fame (the poem's approach as its only idea) my late cognition of modernity giving me the shivers, & you already fortified (& smart, post-cool/post-theory) avoiding the ridiculous vectors of research or a move to the mountains girl in a yellow shirt. more fuck story material (but she's gone!) 'the big question of the big man's sexuality' though really, concentrating on the individuals not the complex sociality of a country town / oh the humanities heterotextual life outside the nightclubs promising more dark crevices, full of pretty sometimes a singlet sets you off (its lazy imitation) or someone's real politics catch your breath, and you're contextualised. (under the mirrorball/ aircon) copes well with stroppy chicks: you're gorgeous and i'm going relationship anti- ameliorate high on my flatmate's milo blonde girls melt like butter into toast there's a million worlds so why compare the boredom of foreseeable poetics: capital h history rolls its credits. so let us write BIG poems instead. on my sexual fantasies. (double-guessed already). she says 'i'd push it right into you' & i am mute. unable to talk dirty, too high brow to utter 'oh baby'. searching for credentials in books i can't remember or a libido of like-mindedness. the anthropologist wants so called 'primitive' people to give up their stories. effacing the colonial endeavour. offering a tontine pillow, or something a little more lofty. the sounds of metaphors heaving, fills the pages. her play party, a disappointment. a poem without a punctum. forget your genius. all that is sordid, melts into air. how to narrativise, now the writing's off the wall? relativising poetry, like love. offering something you don't have to someone who doesn't want it anyway.