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
that evil-intentioned hooligans penetrated the palace gardens, ran amok and torched
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
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