An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English.
There's a shadow on the lung
of the village where I live.
Cass tries hard
for a while
then out comes the knife again.
David has done wrong things
he mistakes stagnant for stasis.
He can be viral, we are vigilant.
Ginelle, new mother
has a degree & a need...
needs to feel she still exists.
The biker next door has an appetite.
Her hubby comes home each night exhausted.
Constable Perkins tries hard
but there's only so much...
Valerie runs a gallery
& cooks for ailing neighbours.
The kids can play soccer every Saturday,
odd Farley has written a book.
We have nurses, holy folk
& a plumber with some great jokes.
You can't say there isn't help.
Dodder Pete could tell you some stories.
His war is tamped down
to jokes & a twitch when he tries to sleep.
The owner of the village doesn't live here.
We heard some stories about him on the news
but have forgotten.
What is the point of knowledge without power?
That febrile teenager Tina
has no ambition other than leaving.
She will not succeed
because though we only see a few streets
(to be honest barely that)
this village is endless.
It burns & excretes plus
there's that nasty cough.
The Garden of Beasts & Excuses
Julia never left home
her last words: extraordinary places.
The cat had packed his bags again
maps of pillage were inscribed in his genes.
Jaunty feathers & guts poked out
between sharp, satisfied teeth.
The sheep she named Desire
slunk off to greener lawns.
Bent with griping
laid low by ticks & horseflies
it chomped & dreamt of permanence.
Billy the budgie went bang,
his best days in vaudeville were behind him.
The song of who you are
needs to be clasped like that grimy perch
beneath your scaly feet.
Two ridgebacks monopolised the lounge
but allowed her the remote
(there was nothing on anyway).
They put a lock on the fridge
to protect her from Plenty.
now a beggar acting out,
her old goat ate anything
but preferred butting up against genitals & walls.
Each thing must have an interest –
one cannot judge.
The wind ignores rodents
they queue poorly for the next harvest.
It will be them
All her educators were raptors.
Once those great wings lifted
she knew so much.
But couldn't explain the wounds.
Lost in the catalogues
she was ready to go
but like us all
Bought In Sold Out
The decade we turned inward & away from others
Cinders my new black
carbonised leaves are filigree.
If that's an art I'll leave the contest,
take to learning rules.
What point is there otherwise?
There are governments & a future
as strange as continued struggle has become
when so little is achieved by it.
Our cities burn.
The air is hooligan grey,
sometimes when bushfires are nearer,
These two are the last colours left.
But my new & pricey fine wool suit feels
just like water.
Even though the land has given up,
bats fall dead from the trees
magpies hurl their barren nests.
I'm designed in Italy
made in Bangladesh
Ladadadee the hymns are hearty
they need volume to blot the worries
that resist any other cleanse that my
prosperous, preposterous Lord can offer.
Now the word is work
& somehow that is less effort.
Growth is evident everywhere,
roads glow with pride.
Last night I put my arms around
devices brighter than I could previously bear.
Chocolate purred from the corners of rough salad
so much to love without the burden of caring.
Yes, I bought it all.
Then signed a petition.
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 performed widely in Australia and abroad, conducts workshops around Australia, has edited many anthologies and other projects, the latest being To End All Wars (Puncher & Wattmann, 2018), and runs Meuse Press which focuses on poetry outreach projects. His poetry appears in numerous magazines and anthologies nationally and internationally. He has published fourteen poetry collections, the latest two being Getting By Not Fitting In (Island Press, Australia, 2016) and Belief (Flying Islands, 2019). He won the Struga Poetry Award in Macedonia (2014).