Seagulls in Civic

Inspired by Saturday night Civic wanderings, and the many nonsensical things you see there.

Seagulls in Civic
Clammer and squawk
Hasty waddle walk across roads in darkness
Street lights and headlights flash
Blinding round red-rimmed eyes
And they beat wings at each other
Puffed-up fluffed up skinny legs snap cold
Orange beaks gaping swallow scraps
Of night and old fish bones and
Cheese burger wrappers
So busy looking around at themselves
Don’t see the taxi
Stamps on brakes rubber screech
White feathers fly disperse
Coulda been worse
She wandered off and he
He went home in the taxi

Rush

Rush
Rush and crumble and
Reshape
Nape
Of my neck prickles and
I shift and blur
Frazzled ends of thoughts curl
Recoil like limbs from flames
Weight like petrol seeps
Into cracks in my lungs
Bronchi ignite like tinder forests
Nostrils flare
Hair
Bristles between my toes
Horns bore through my temples
Sucked breath
Beats against a
Brick wall
That I strike my frontal cortex against
First now and again
Then again and again and again and again
Hammering hooves
Hurtling home to wound the wall
But it won’t break
Brick or brain
I suspect they are
One and the same
But still I back up again
Horns lowered
Bronchi burning
Cortex coursing
Cloven hooves molten-hot
Ready to
Rush

This is not a poem

This is not a poem
About daffodils or roads less travelled by
This is not a poem about pleasure domes
Or ravens or roses or
Jabberwocks falling to vorpal swords
Or the night they set Canberra on fire
This is a poem about me

This is not a love poem
Woven flutterings and fingerprints
Roped into ballads of first and last-times
Lines so thick with love the ink runs
Turning hairline-cracked hearts into art
To pin down ex-lovers with and
Scream, “Ha! Now you are a poem!”
But not this rhyme, this time
These words are all mine

This is not a poem about home
I refuse to slam about
My parent’s compost heap
Stained old teapot myriad morning cups
Sunday pancakes pets pressed doll-dressed
Into childish memories
The thing growing under my brother’s bed
Butterfly wings on my window sill or
Plane trails in the sky
It’s about me, myself and I

This is not a poem about heroes
Infesting imaginations, hogging
Poetic subject matter with legends of
Modern-day-mythical-local-vocal
Champions exultant reluctant
Superhuman like Dr Who or
Robert Downey Jnr sending
Hearts into nuclear meltdown
No! Red capes will not displace
My poem’s sacred space

This is not a protest poem
No flags were set alight with
Fist-shaken verse-fuel
No march for freedom beat out
In iambic rhythm
No couplets hurled, grenades
To crack conservative nuts
No bras burned in phonemic rage
No politicians poetically petitioned
No battle lines were verbally positioned
No minorities mnemonically learned
Into the public memory
No might resisted
These words are enlisted
Only to my cause

Because

This is not a poem

This is a cobbled corroboration of

Spilt beans and tea leaves
Lovers and lost things
Homes and heroes
Poems, protests
And recollections

Because

This is not a poem

This is a conversation
And a bottle of wine
With you
At 2am