Keri Glastonburyís 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
there was a snap freeze &
another book launch while you were gone;
i guess it's a trajectory
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.
um, it's two up
with floral wallpaper
(imagine a rack
of bed & breakfast
pamphlets – in the entrance!)
there's a yellow glass
the colour of old velour
come traipsing home late
though i'm soaking my whites
in sard's wonder
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!)
as disclosure mosquitos
into sticky messages
& opportunities appear
like swellings on my wrists
your looks of flummox
affable & un-integrated, the kinda manic activist the academy seeks to
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
while students dream of documentary fame (the poem's approach as its only
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/
copes well with stroppy chicks:
and i'm going
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.