Poems in the wild #7

Poem #7 (jack of hearts) was released outside the Music Swop Shop on Elgin St, Carlton, on top of a bunch of Inpress. How I roll, you know. No finders yet...

The witch of experience

flatters against the wall

spun with spider sugar

ripped with tears.

The rattle of intellect

is fat against her life

brief and thick with salt

stiff with silver coins.

Scrape her clean and

you will find a sweet

and dead seductive child.


Poem #8 will be released today via my lovely assistant @timsterne

Poems in the wild #6

Last week I was feeling distinctly uninspired (as I have been generally of late when it comes to writing - even for me), so I asked the lovely Tim Sterne if I could steal a paragraph he wrote and chop it up into a poem. He's a nice lad, and he said yes. So it's kindof a collaborative effort. Kindof. I might have myself a business card printed up that says: Anna Ryan-Punch - Poetry Architect.

The card (queen of hearts) is still AWOL, but was released on a table in the front bar of Markov Place.


The woman in the motorised
wheelchair was once
a child with a secret.
When her bones fused with needles
her skin slick with sweat,
the window would swing open
and she would
rise
elegantly
above sodden bedclothes
float into the night air
drift above the city
watching lights blink
tasting nightclouds on her tongue.
They wouldn't have believed
she did fly.

Poems in the wild #5

Last week's poem (6 of clubs) was released on an Epping line train at Thornbury station. Where is it now? Probably delayed.

Always been the sort to

stop mid sentence

Not end of chapter or right hand

bottom corner or full stop

Just rest the butterflied

paperback and close my eyes.

Always been the type to fall

asleep where I shouldn't

Never waiting for bed over

someone else's carpet

For home over lawns

Unable, in both ways to find

my place myself when I wake.

Poems in the wild #4

Last Friday I released poem #4 (9 of spades) at Thousand Pound Bend in Little Lonsdale Street. My coffee was excellent, but no one has yet claimed capture of the poem.



Three things about his mother he

knew for certain:

She went to the cinema as an

excuse to cry somewhere other than

the shower.

She stole one item per supermarket

shop, and took the tomatoes

off the truss before checkout.

Her hands smelled like soap

and her lap smelled like old apples.

Three things about his mother he

did not know for certain:

How he could be a man in her eyes

How first he had caught up to her

shoulders, and then;

How suddenly she was small.


Poem #5 was released yesterday...