The coast squeezed itself beside me.
I am my own audience, white with
commitment I envelope myself
into the realm of ice-eaters.
The short-lived dalliance with other
colour; I am committed to whiteness
whatever the media; I throw woodchips
on my painting, my periodic mind resumes.
Eager for birth, already absinthe-intoxicated,
he takes her blood to the doctor, and loves
her so much she conceives. He writes her
diary, fills it with boiled eggs, chance, the
discredited theories of rage and exaggerated calm.
In Scandinavia, a perverse, unconscious man
buys a tub orange with blossoms
from imported fruit trees. Stale hallucination,
this life. Soak up her vigour, you may
need it to shop for a heartbeat. Her
estimated time lengthens. She finally sees
the wind melt. A young lyricist writes
a tune about Phoebus, and the consequences.
Michael Fitzgerald-Clarke has recently launched The South Townsville micro poetry journal. It seeks poetry of all kinds that is twenty-five lines or fewer. When he’s not burning the midnight candle responding to submissions, Michael’s often running up his phone bill.