DIARY OF A LEDGER
by Craig Dunn
So I`m in Departures, right?
The old lobester suite, like
Luna Park, or the Opera
House, or Uluru; and a
a TV view of this chick,
thimbling dexter-something
like she`s allergic to coke,
comes in – out. Then, burn
my goggles if some porno
alias with a fickle fetish
doesn`t latte up for the
territories; fear and loathing
on the grvay train. Rather,
a nipple double cumulus
Meccano golf as if the whole
miniature wasn`t an elaborate
void. Well, I kick Renovations
nicely; arrivals at Betty Crocker
gens hers; when a celltone
between this dude`s sciatica
and my autopilot application
probes an old-fashioned
insurance poster, of a moose
with a broken antler, standing
over a troubled bricklayer
under a vane of branches…
and he`s crossing out every
date! Sure, what did you
expect? I lip out, organise
my personals. Pocking:
on this sill, I perv down and
rope a birdfeeder through
chatoyance, slotting wings
the way a fateling student
saves for a thesis while
hinges whinge, maggots
double back, and the
theory of oneonism equates
this play-juju (judge a jury)
with oi-puju (Punch & Jury)
unless light marbles decant
a tight soda. Meanwhile?
The buzzer had dropped off
its flight, I`d mobiled home.
and the bouquet was cushioned:
for copyright reasons, this
edition is not for sale.