RICHARD MERCER LOVE SONG DEDICATIONS
every single one of us knows that work sucks
we secrete moments between it to
POEM BITE FUCK
it’s 7.42pm friday I’m standstill in a sushi house
redfern street, deli lights, veggie roll—
this is not enough
off to the Metro to see the Whitlams
this is not Gough this is not dough
this is not cinnamon avoid
sugar words, avoid processes,
arid bark, arms and David Marr
this plastic bag swings around my wrist and scratches
this fledgling in a mushroom ATTEMPT
a brown paper bag is still a thing
the sign at redfern station tells me to KEEP LEFT
to finish a poem feels like a game of stacks on
at the Metro there’s a Ural on the ground
and finally midnight comes—I sneak into your bed
should be at home but I’ll squeeze out an hour
a lemon, a lime, a mangosteen,
a mandarin without skin, no white artery
a sliver you feed me
I bite it / juice sinks
AM I A DOOR / SIX POEMS SAY (YES)(?)
after John Forbes, for G.D
is regret a type of antiHOPE?
pockets empty till monday but who carries cash these days.
it’s always King Street are there no other streets
donation-based mediation on Enmore emotes
we use coconut oil as lube, yeah, ok,
it does stain the sheets but skin absorbs the rest
eventually. we’re soft. like an 18-year-old’s
first night out at The Townie
& you walk me around the curve
like the swing that I am.
last night was vindaloo. or butter chicken.
or karma. or lassi.
mangoes bob through my poems
like thought bubbles down a stormwater drain—
I struggle to round them up to make GELATO
4my favourite quotations—
‘I like your flesh don’t you?’
‘I’m throwing the toffee apple
into a rubbish bin that’s stuck with butts,
& the knack of disappearing early.
Inside a dextrose aureole
the view is limpid. I’m sticky.’
I’ve never written a love poem before:
there’s dog shit on the pavement as I saunter
down King; too many blokes gurning
in the warehouse to warrant a comment about
how, when we’re walking home from the party,
you stop at the banksias
hit tippy toes of flat feet
to reach not the first banksia, but the prettiest,
the one right at the top and over the fence...
maybe, instead, you swing open
and I walk through.
This poem was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Holly Friedlander Liddicoat’s poetry has been published widely and she has edited poetry for Voiceworks. Her debut collection CRAVE is out now with Rabbit Poetry.