. It could start with his ferrous cock clanging away between strings of late noon and beheld by a smirking antelope—eyes ajar like living graves, char, millet. Their horizontal mass which keeps arriving.
. With him doodling a prism in chalk, his drack beard slaying the marks he’s made. His teats grafting at a thorny puddle, and teeth domed and coded, cracked.
. Him on the walkways alone and green as his outlawed tubers. Our twisted news in his hands.
. Meaning, its bulk would be the scree of our tinkling trash lodged in his astral pipe, sharp as motorbikes herded.
. There’d be a creak such as low flames or a catafalque. Words and rubble would jounce off tracery, so would plebs; and palmettes’d wish him dead.
. A monkey blinks. Hippocampus churning its hive. The children are not safe.
. And so it must end by growing congeries of hands to juggle his bruised granite rack and swat wasps from his staring vulva. The drain of light that shrieks into our niche. He wishes up an egg.
. Over and over there is peace, his foot plunging into a mustard brogue of dust.
. Bells. Brill and crowy, the fog is hauled aside by ants: a gateless gate through which, rising on crewel lakes of printed leopard, stands his dark pink bed.
Bonny Cassidy is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Chatelaine (Giramondo, 2017). She coedited the anthology, Contemporary Australian Feminist Poetry (Hunter Publishers, 2016) and is Feature Reviews Editor for Cordite Poetry Review. Bonny leads the BA Creative Writing at RMIT University, Melbourne.