Lauren Byleveld

Vic Poems

Farmyard 211

It was a dodgy prick that sold us
the lease on his farmyard property he
shared the facilities, shed, driveway
latrine, bathroom window, but he gave
us the paint that wasn’t thick
enough to cover great gashing wounds
that you might’ve blamed on the rats
if it hadn’t been a landslide, foundation
of a desperate miner digging furiously
in his sleep. In mine it was only
the air traffic that worried me when
a louvre, the only one of six not around
smashed when British red eye
made its way home, homely enough
with an open fireplace that really
had to be left open, we trampled
mulberries and children’s scalps
from front to back side stepping
a hundred alcoves on the way
as was expected of us for the thievery
cancelled many a nearly night out
it was a great way to meet people
out the back playing guitar to
the rhythm of dog races befriending
each other and insurmountable rot.

On Looking into Them

Somewhere in Australia, people are lining up
for tickets, clambering into the mountains. High.
Enough to stand tall, spike a flag, a Polaroid
position hidden away from guns.

Behind tall wires of Maralinga a gate keeper
minds their own business, reading Borges
for inspiration and fifty years. The star already chosen,
raising fables and a single blue pot plant.

Looking out over the Yarra a needle bin is wasted, they
lost all motor nerve control, when the drainage
blocked out the sun, leaves went mouldy and
traffic turned the deco- tower black.

In the middle of Brisbane inside a space saver
ward, a six year old feebly kicks away,
his second liver, weekend darling harbour
promises, his green flesh flakes off, balding.
For a third shot.

Groping sand from Asia, kids suck in open windows and
the very same web-sites. Free wheelin‘ city lasting longer
than distance, a long haired eunuch measured
the circumstantial evidence.

Dr. Green spoke on national television at housekeepers,
a glow, smothers Adelaide watch warnings, those
boys are dead now, after-life crowding. They live
like cartoon sewer rats, in a new world of violence.

Unpowered Tent Site 467

Week two arrived, it was new years
eve, we sat on the most central
wooden table in the park
bottle one open, waiting for the carnival.
We drank alone it wasn’t over not
even nearly there, time for a quick
outdoor rendezvous with the
spa and us and back for bottle
two, you and me I waxed
while you rested in our one man tent.
In the darkness not wanting to miss it all
we cut a Pepsi bottle open wasting the
goodness in order to shove
a candle in the hole burnt to our table
we waited in its glow.
Our house is a good house we cheersed
one another, bottle three began when
Brautigan and Bukowski arrived
and you giggled me a wink reaffirming
how it was.

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