Poems in the wild #9

Poem #9 (ace of clubs) was released in the little programs box outside the Carlton Courthouse Theatre in Drummond Street, Carlton. I was forced to sit over the road in Markov Place and have a glass of wine while I watched to see if anyone picked it up, but there were no takers by the time I had to leave to pick up Luka from daycare.

When you say 'immaculate' 

I think of fingernails

The precious painted claws, 

I want to drink the colour back

into your face and push your habit 

of decay bang off the rails.

Only in the tales of men 

do hunters kill the wolf

When did you file your canine 

points to bluntness,

sifting dust among the figurines

so tamed and bloodless,

caged beneath your roof?


I've decided now that I'm back at work full time I'll release the poems on Saturdays - otherwise they're ALL going to be released in Carlton, and we don't want to show favouritism, do we?

We both bought t-shirts

(A poem cut together from texts. I'd forgotten I'd written this.)

It would be darker in the morning.

I pick my battles, perhaps

even if it’s clearly more of a stifled yawn

a relay race for people who have lost interest.

I haven’t had a shower and I’m in yesterday’s makeup

Exhausted, asleep, but missing you still

thinking of you up there all alone

small is important too.

Then the usual domestic shite

I dreamed I was at Big W with you

I have mellowed over the years

we both bought t-shirts.

Get your subconscious to role-play it

I would be happy just to see if

I loved bolting into town

any time/place/dress code.

It’s excellent indoor weather

the sky is appropriately grey and

all buses pass my place at some point

you might want to buy an umbrella.

Leaned down and caught the scent of you on a cushion.

I open my eyes, and yours are shut

every time I look at my watch I am closer to

seeing the longing in my heart.

We could have a little while together

even better, it will keep happening

so much work into that mix

I will also finally feed you an oyster.

Poems in the wild #8

Poem #8 (2 of clubs) was released by my spiwited assistant @timsterne on a "mystery train" at Southern Cross station. It was a mystery train because it was supposed to keep going through the loop, but then they ordered everyone off, and it pulled out of the station on its way to who-knows-where in the wilds of Melbourne. Probably Flinders St. It is still on the loose, as far as I know.

One takes another by the hand

to prayer. Pages, fingers.

All take each one by the feet

to dance. Hoppers, splinters.

Another takes another

by the hips to fuck. Hands, heat.

All take another by the veins

to breathe. Blood, beat.

All known by one. Scrapes,  a kiss.

Another known by all.

Blisters, bliss.


Poem #9 will be released later today...

As an aside, I'm going back to full-time work next week, so I'll no longer have Fridays off. Poems will be hastily written and transcribed onto playing cards somewhere between me dropping Luka off at daycare, emptying the returns boxes, spending library funds at Readings, turning the records over, and picking up Luka again. (I make library work sound so professional. No wonder people always ask "Do you need a degree to do that job?" The answer to which, by the way, is yes you bloody do, and you also need excellent taste in music, books and novelty knee-socks. And strong arms.)

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...