Adrian Wiggins likes catalogues and Lego. He lives in Australia.

[You’re savvy]

You're savvy about the stars;
their inscrutable twinkly scrim eggs
you on, back through the screen
door, down the creaking hall, past your rivals
and friends yabbering on, a zephyr
at your back. She just might
give over – the wet electric
mental whirrings sputter
and pfut – a sexual vignette
coalesces – ah – oh – the fall of her hair,
her dress full of promise, her scissoring legs
pedalling about the credenza.


Later, listening to a late night tune
on the World Music Show
– a mysterious Shetland tune –
writer unknown – austere
and short-lived – a lilting luminosity
and so-on, something so generous
you almost pop – strange then
the darker it got the better you heard
the benign ratcheting of your own entropy
over the party reeling on, the clatter
of the carpet bowls as they overshot
the hall runner and dashed across the parquetry
the easy laughter, the clinking glasses

All the Frantic Weak

The friend rose light and mean and smooth
as the black sea "I use up forests shot
with crying – here, see me, my white dress
its diaphonous pornography –
how I warp the street."
A reflexive detachment indicates
modernism, catalogues, high
fibre – there’s oncologists for everything
but this – I dream a dream of you, I wanted
you I wanted you
dead now my puddle-duck we waddle up
the hard high road and I recall
an easy winter till we ripped
up summer’s honey apparatus –
your incantatory chant blazing away "Shine Sun
your hotpants spray enormous
love at waxy purple death" in bed
a symphony's bloody power boils the void
red-faced and drunk
with effort – oh you
set me going like a fat
batch of erections.
                  Weddings flatter
the married, wound the singular, baffle
the newlyweds, and for some reason sunny
Saturdays are taken
up with this – how we stare abashed
by a contract – come Monday we1re back
beating those suits with a thousand
elaborate clubs. Ask me
to picture you chained
girl wanting gorgeous eternity
when firstly I loved up near you all stormy
and proximate like worship.
None, you say, may use
my sweet arm to stop
their ache. Nothing is shocking
you now, which makes you suddenly
sullen. Fare thee well.
               Will rains
from milk and time – it is here
go shake iron at it, hit
on it sleeping and rob
all the frantic weak.