soaked

For Richard Tipping

Inhabiting this
     art

we're not seated
     on a carved chair
     regarding
     through glass

the sharked
     polluted
     eternal
     ocean—

We're the flensing edge
     of any of a hundred
     newly risen
     teeth

We're the cornea
     of a boy bodysurfing
     beside an
     outlet pipe

We're a blackened plank
     floating around soaked
     A message
     without a bottle

First published in Plumwood Mountain

say something

If I
want to speak
here, it seems I must wear
this colourful suit
they have given me. They say
it looks good on me,
makes me appear more
interesting. But

it’s too small:
my shoulders are too broad,
my arms reach well beyond the cuffs,
my hips are too wide,
I can hardly bend my knees
and everyone can see
my Achilles tendons.

Also, I’m afraid of getting stuck in it.

I long to tear it off,
shrug on my own
plain garments, go
home.

But this is the only Speakers Corner in town
and there are people
everywhere
unheard —
because they have no clothes,
or because they’re caged —
so please beware of popping buttons
as I say something

for them.

(First published in Performance Poets, Fremantle Press 2013)