Friday, April 27, 2012

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

Friday, April 20, 2012

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
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.

Friday, April 13, 2012

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.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

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...