Three untitled prose poems
Yeah. Yeah, that it’s bro. He had a skinful. Yeah. I couldn’t tell, just had this feeling, you know. Back of me head. No, I never been there before. But I knew that’s where the horse would go.
People say, I’ve looked a hundred times – usually in the same places. So I look where they don’t think it could possibly be, and there it is.
*
He hid inside a ball, the juggler found it. Mill’s Mess made him dizzy; the Shower lashed boredom. He made a new game: keeping arms and feet splayed wide, sprung off the wall rap rap rapidly. He was starshaped. Hands and feet wore down, limbs shivered and cracked, spun about, shaved to stunted. Shrunk to a ball. He fit. In.
*
The fool’s cap was full of sheets of paper. When I reached my hand in, something bit me, skin torn from bone. The fool laughed, offered a salve. The hand healed quickly. I followed him, took money as he performed on the streets, watched as he milked the wealthy for attention, courted favour for position in the senate. I offered a man my own hat full of sheets of paper. When it bit him he slapped me.
Coaching tips
The first thing we did with the new coach was learn how to juggle. Fucking stupid. But keeping three balls in the air gives you a lot of confidence when you drop back to one. We all had to kick with both feet. The forwards as well as the backs did half-back drills. He made us agree there was no point carrying flab; we got rid of it. We gave up beer. Stopped talking about luck. Finally, we beat the All Blacks.
paper
in the sheet
. Martin’s absence
Martin’s travelling
light in the room
. contains days
he walked beside the canal
. looking for birds
shadows on windows
life
. not an exercise
you walk away
. find yourself
at the edge of a lake
which precedes
. white paper
binary
. to Barthes
I don’t know
what a red-letter day is
understanding male and female
demanding
like theorists
coming to an empty room
perfectly appointed
on the side of a mountain
inside, a table set for dinner
and no food
you can sit
as long as you like
Meditations on Švankmajer
stone drop
this me
in another life
. rage
. at the man
. let the guinea pig go free
changing
places
with the beast
. without him
. we have a picnic
. & don’t even know
. what we are
housecrack
beating faster
the story crumbles
. objects
. torment him
voyeur –
feathers win
for a while
lips
(i)
her lips
without opening
in a twist of defiance
the struggle to find
food
wood for the fire
worry the roof might
teeter
(ii)
her lips
in tight lines
the mannered nature
of words, careful
to say the
precise things
(iii)
his lips
with a little
bleak humour
falling off his bike
free-ass (paroles)
Saussure, sausage
bake in a
rin-tin-tin, Bakhtin
with the exciting adventures of
Kristeva Christabel
birds answer stars
a blush of light
between clouds
a blurb of light
a typo, the Bibel
a rustic joke
(or primitive instrument)
chattering
kind wakefulness
what’s the password. [clues
. which can be
is being dyslexic. taken out]
any kind of advantage?
Mother referenced multitudes:
to be Pacific, dear
*
the stool wobbles
euphemism
for what’s hard to say
. I didn’t have the muscle tone
. to cut it off
early morning
a knotted handkerchief
at the end of a stick
he steps onto the drive
the journey ends
*
disarrayed
thoughts cross easily
a bridge
between sign
and wilderness
*
met him
a simple metonym
what!
homonym Watt
shuffling bags
towards the exit
left out a personal pronoun
took the bus instead
he was also
whistling-osis
a thrush he remembered
on the fence post
singing
tea
after the first sip
settle to reading Bakhtin
. the charm in knowing
. the cup is ready
something catches your attention
an idea odours the room
wash it down
with sips
Bakhtin’s second page
the word ‘neutral’
in the quote by Zirminsky
the phrase ‘linguistic descriptions’
applied to novels
someone is talking
raise the cup
I’ve learnt the word ‘variform’
a wash
the cup empty
‘the higher unity of the work as a whole’
-Owen Bullock
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Owen Bullock
Owen Bullock’s publications include River’s Edge (Recent Work Press, 2016), A Cornish Story (Palores, 2010), and sometimes the sky isn’t big enough (Steele Roberts, 2010). He has two new collections forthcoming in 2017: semi (Puncher & Wattmann) and Work & Play (Recent Work Press). He won the Canberra Critics’ Circle Award for Poetry for his performance of urban haiku for Poetry at the Gods in September 2015. Owen has edited several journals and anthologies, including Poetry New Zealand. He recently completed a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Canberra. He tweets @OwenTrail
Biographical Note
River’s Edge, 5678, and Urban Haiku are available from Recent Work Press
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