A new poem from Melbourne-based poet Grace Yee.

I have heard

that the price of a pound of gold has gone grey over the last couple of months

that the first sovereign lord beheaded his grandson

that chinese market gardeners in suburbia shipped out after decades of fasting

and purification

that evil-intentioned hooligans penetrated the palace gardens, ran amok and torched

every tree

that all the animals – except the amphibians and one in every five humans – perished

that those who remained were photographers and craftsmen whose splendour proved to be

a waste of lime and quicksand

that all they wanted to do was sugar-coat everything, including the sloppily referenced

poorly constructed sentences on the shelves of high street shops that broadcast

terra nullius radio

that due to the special enmity between men, the gates were hastily closed and a carbon

racquet bestowed on the king at the same time that ten mosquito bites were

extracted from his super complex yoga routine

that the real problem is people are so consumed with the manufacture of lacquer and glass

they no longer respond to the teachings of the universe:

all they want to do is sip cold brew mochaccinos, talk about coloured girls through a wall

of built-in bookshelves, and move to new zealand for a better life.

The Friday Poem is edited by Chris Tse. Submissions are welcome and will be open until the end of April. Please send your poems to chris@christse.co.nz.