{"id":3443,"date":"2011-12-20T02:00:21","date_gmt":"2011-12-20T02:00:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sporkpress.com\/poetry\/?p=255"},"modified":"2011-12-20T02:00:21","modified_gmt":"2011-12-20T02:00:21","slug":"3-poems-by-corey-wakeling-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/2011\/12\/20\/3-poems-by-corey-wakeling-2\/","title":{"rendered":"3 Poems by Corey Wakeling"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Renaissance<\/strong><\/p>\n

The better part of a plotting fulcrum
\njoined to the bean spasms of all these futurists,
\nI kiss your nipples and run my soft nails
\nlike a death row comb through your hair.
\nThe Mussolini balcony swelters like
\nswine crackling, your wreaths of rosemary
\ndo nothing to transform pig\u2019s head.
\nRome did protest its masquerade of pork,
\nplus its goat shins, though not to entertain
\nthe depths of the apartment tenancy
\nwhich swallows all, with a fondness for
\nburied parchments, may the tenant eat the magpie
\nideograms of the leadlights glowing on the limina.<\/p>\n

I kiss the only soft part of you the belly and touch
\nthe refusal spot, thence the collapse of the rhododendron
\nand the bougainvillea
\nof the aesthetics of the Renaissance.<\/p>\n

I see carabanieri turning their berets in the reverse,
\nin remembrance of their leviathan swallowed by an offshore vortex.
\nThe rat\u2019s head ocarina whistles like your grit teeth,
\nyour face is red and green behind the leadlight
\nof a mallee gum copse and I am in retreat in Bacchus Marsh.
\nOne under thus city bound, the king floats like a cretin ghost
\npointing out the call numbers to the histories of secret smugglers,
\nthus I love the Korean libraries and fall in love
\nwith your immaculate teeth and your eyes of mother-of-pearl.<\/p>\n

The coup of murals and the plague of rats,
\nthe coo of the rat ocarina and the formal woman
\npresented as vellum for the single Chinese character: \u611b
\nThere is to be no ceiling, rather an avenue of basements,
\nand invitations come in the form of call numbers.
\nThe library at Otaru served sake from an ideogram barrel
\nbetween which no rat could subsist since the hay
\nof their packages is gone, and there\u2019s no forgetting the lull
\nin visitors when we lay beside each other amongst
\nthe lived hardbacks and ink stains and steal the corner
\nof a quidam\u2019s writing room.
\n_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Impersonator<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the suburbs of Melbourne there is a mission
\nbut those who scratch scramble in bouleversement,
\nI would lookalike and advance guard from
\nthe cottage reticula but of the vista
\nand North Melbourne remains the bitten nails
\nof apprenticeships interrogated, thus no place.
\nThe lines and lines of them preceding Langer
\nadminister the secret power coupler of elm and possum
\ncarcass, the brick smokestacks do not stroke the panther
\nlest woken, and Ned Kelly lookalikes, their cheeks resembling
\nthe sunset, are tin and rivets. Like Ned Kelly lookalikes
\nthe horses of jaunty children and the secular pageant
\nof dark ponies by new homes, loosening the sheet metal
\nfrom and booming through a darkening night, the little voices
\nsubscribe communitarians in representative colours to
\nthe vigil of the slumberous fountain.
\nYou\u2019re swelling with abashment. Even the eyes colour red.
\nYou swoon like a coastal paperbark, forever swooning
\nwith golden cheek to sandy ground. Above bedtime.<\/p>\n

And whose genius led you to strip the verandahs
\nof townhouses and choke the frangipanis, force the
\nhome dwellers into costumes of the antediluvian,
\nthe Pre-Socratic steel and sunset of the cheeks,
\nthe abashments of the flint stones of congregation
\nand its cocked skeleton of the compass white gum,
\nbut the Nolan impersonator or hallway proletariat,
\nglum with saucy invention chalked onto slate, for
\nyou to find, for your anticipation, for you to build
\nyour retreat on, an advance guard dispersing
\nand fornicating like a hurricane of wild ponies.
\nThat impersonating genius has led you to further
\naccomplishment considering the weekend apprenticeship,
\nwhere your lunch hours are spent intimate with
\na girl of unrecited dreams, aromas
\nof cooked jarrahwood clinging to the heirloom suits
\nof adopted strangers, though their wet whispers
\ncool the embarrassment of the bare skulls you\u2019ve opened.
\nYes, your dream with a spider inside is yellow love.
\n_______________________________________________<\/p>\n

Destination Coleridge<\/strong><\/p>\n

Flames to appease me now,
\nliquefying the stage tarpaulin,
\ndead larch looks like a knee bone
\nwith a doorway beneath. What is
\na larch? And then I saw Coleridge
\nthere in the field
\nscraping mud from his boots
\nbefore hitting the slops. Your
\nsister with blonde hair and
\nblack eyebrows. Each dot is
\na flame of reason to appease visions
\nof the button nose, the slops
\nof cornbread or polenta, viz.
\nthe avalanche
\nseason during which we try
\nto breakfast. See my contention
\nthen? Coleridge in peacock hat
\nscraping the mud from his
\ngumboots before analysing
\nthe cows.<\/p>\n

So he hid his nude indoors
\nto burn his paperbacks,
\ndrunk on brandy, flamb\u00e9ing
\nthe fruit cake in prematurity
\nlike a nude paperback read
\nin furtive disinterest but parsed
\nall the same for the sake
\nof viper education. And the little boy
\nwe would like for his nutrients
\ngasps tangled in an anaconda
\nor hemp rope. See him if you
\nbut head through the Jacobean
\ndoorway drifting in senescence
\nto a lean, past the honest sketches
\nto a sitting room cleared for this purpose.<\/p>\n

Kensington similarities hang the boy
\nby the ankle like a hammock, to be
\ngiven the slideshow of your sister\u2019s
\nfaces. No silhouette permitted
\non the island. And if thrust to the muddy
\npaddock without gumboots,
\npushed through the mud by a boot
\ninto the next to confront your films
\nafire, the nude indoors of indefatigable
\ninvitation, they would not duck
\nto see you swinging by the heel,
\nthough you might see Coleridge scraping
\nthe concrete from his rubber boots,
\ngazing past the beef into the peacocks.<\/p>\n

The larches convene on the miner\u2019s cottage
\nwith patio aslant approaching the penultimate
\necdysis. The indoor nude won\u2019t evaporate
\nwhere the fruitcake sabotages the hammock.
\n_______________________________________________
\nCorey Wakeling lives in Melbourne, Australia. His work has appeared in numerous Australian and international journals, newspapers, and anthologies, with new work appearing in Jacket2, Famous Reporter, The Australian Book Review, Handsome Journal, Big Lucks, Overland, Southerly, Geek Mook, Cordite, and Best Australian Poems 2011. He is a PhD candidate and tutor at the University of Melbourne.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Renaissance The better part of a plotting fulcrum joined to the bean spasms of all these futurists, I kiss your nipples and run my soft nails like a death row comb through your hair. The Mussolini balcony swelters like swine crackling, your wreaths of rosemary do nothing to transform pig\u2019s head. Rome did protest […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3443","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-things"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3443","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3443"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3443\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3443"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3443"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thisissporkpress.com\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3443"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}