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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.

Issue Four



Mea Culpa

Today is full of no direction.
Rarely has been or perhaps
just impassable routes for me.
So stepped outside the honeycomb –
the air's so hard but
I hold on.
You can hug something long enough,
it becomes a simulacrum of love & reprieve.

Tangled in the sheets of a nagging mortality
my breath is seized by hungry crows.
They dissect with a holy patience
until the bones of words clatter to the pavement.
There was a book on bodies that I never read
(though am a co-author).
The fuss all dissipated
after lies were exposed.
I am richer now.

Harbour Town

In this season I can only aspire to make trouble.
Wearing all my clearance clothes
I loiter at this bum-hole of winter
await any ending.
Constantly constant this
isn't peace or retreat, just almost.

Wind rifles up the coast
an indigenous flag falters
beside an invader's tomb of frigid marble.
The decommissioned sun joins the other homeless drifters.

Then spring is ablaze.
Down on the docks trouble is brewing tea.
The union refuses to concede
while I sail by in my excuse thimble
& count money.

This drags on as all things do
the season rots the fingers...
they'd held on through nasty months,
now to compost beside
eucalypt leaves & nest-fallen chicks.

City beaches abrade our pert decisions.
Drinking all the salt we craze about in lethargic elegance
until the drum solo
when DNA wakes the lovers up to tweak & rustle.
Silver eyes watch, reflect on water.

The Warrior

Don't waste your small songs
days have had a serious issue
we're in the mess of our fixings
& one woman won't shut up
(I am so grateful for that).

I'm just about mute
though two friends hear my grumbles.
I've written a few poems, she
refuses to stop (where does that energy come from?)

Right? There's no quiz shows left
& this question seems specious.
She gets up early, carries rocks to rim
with messages carved in their spines,
tossed down
on bellicose detractors stuck at the valley floor.
They see direction only
in worn-down trails.
She once killed a cane toad with laughter.

The Garden of Eden is a dump.
Supposed to be tropical, on the news
we were promised.
Just desert & rough wind.
Thought we should have known more
though we wanted only "human interest" on the news.
Surely rain
sometime. This woman is right,
time to steal the silver spoons
then sharpen them.

Les Wicks grew up in western suburbs of Sydney, Australia. He lived in Sydney and London, and was one of the founders of the Poets' Union in New South Wales. He has published thirteen poetry collections, the latest being Getting By Not Fitting In (Island Press, Australia, 2016). He won the Struga Poetry Award in Macedonia (2014).

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