Two

 

AFTER THE ORGY

 

 

i is an / ugh it’s an ignoramus

       jamais jamais u say / or maybe nether nether

              its inland sequel is counting on this Eur

optic allusion to echo it &/ or braise it w/

       outsourcery in terror pots of ennui & rain

              flowers overtly peer out

no less ensorcelled than stoner food

              so naturally some cat

 

whose deputy moi disappoints

       is appointed montage

              & the relevant delusion is a man w/ money   

& ici an aussi trysting the rules 

       that like a tonne of organic eclairs

              drape a new noir across the Bois-like lures

i’ll pass on the pas des deux thanx

              get to the point

 

that our swords had a tang & whereas o

       & u caressed me w/ red tape

              worms castigated

our puerile & futile violence toward the budding

       bourgy eggheads burgeoned & now

              log on to download God from the bots

i dance on the verge of & purity deserts

              time lore & legislation

 

deploying a Leunig moon

       night unshackles

              dense w/ chaos & glass above the hotel’s pole

fat spleen bats careen about

       a party rented out by a billion celebs

              channelled through cathodes to audit each

Everest movie premiere in which Madame

              XXX turns tables on a P&O

 

coming down from the Alps i clock out

       from the party but land on its feet & like another 

              glib latency we did

pirouettes for cock & held a tournament

       our comprehension of bras was

              so hammed up a unicorn in denial of plaques

flogged the place & although rustling

              infants regarded this

 

mauve imagery as a great maze of in vitro

       in a coruscating vein today

              fumes w/ magazines that mate

& guesstimate like machine guns spitting out why

       why why do bats on castor

              sugar always sing in technicolour

a cirque de slander let’s elope   

              my funnel webs my blemishes

 

we’ll sing chez Bluebeard’s at the abbatoirs

       taking pot-shots at Targét

              at the haughty few who suck back the gravity

of long tirades & bark in voices

       our settler mess ruing the grand

              spent at the sales 

where flowers retrograde queerly

              mercurially déjà 

 

voodoo & u who peer at my cash my

       precious poor lark’ll hit the ceiling we’ll traverse

              toilets dissing the clock

wise anti-delirium & go back

       Down Under where the rest sank Freud

              après the ludic deluge

ici aussi

              totes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GEN Y

 

 

daze of body & soul come to a / won’t come to an

       end on this / the last night of dearth  

              browsing eBay & Etsy / the Cloud i erode

       drops in & butts out like a tide

u appear in my inboxed head eating snow

       eggs & depression for dessert as if

              Bondi Beach were fatigued of its breathing

       unsound government ships the crowds

back off into knots i glance at 

       the sea / poles flip & newspolls murk / spill

              over / as vague as a wave it is

       career weather for doze who believe He loves us

all in the choked capital of wherever     

              i / u / our brain didn’t go

 

looking for grief after noon / it found us

       in the form of an algorithm that could remember

              & dismember our feeds / our new dream

       scrolls in reverse that echo

(according to music vids & some fat 

       graphic lips in a txt) 

              the future consumption of everything before it’s even

       been munched thru like ancient gums

suffering Hillsong yr funding’s been

       approved by the Ministry for Excellence /

              Spirit / __________ but mate

       it cannot be redeemed for bodily release

in the Cross shutdown by new police power & assumption that

              our impact on the environment won’t be felt

 

out there in the multiverse

       apparitions behove themselves as certain

              heads of state racing long into action deferred

       mouthing out confected norms as swift & whimsical as

horses for courses men continue to fall from

       the sky caused Obama anger / joy /

              guilt told a story factoidally

       something about the seven plots of our Hadron Collider

existence looping round like hope /

       happiness / liberty / __________

              but the feelings downloaded got stuck in

       a sinkhole / promises resounded 

& the earthworms began to travel w/ tradition again / asking

              do u remember yr body or bodies

 

curled up together / wanting to buy for a long time

       machine that can fatalize any experience there is/was no terror

              that couldn’t be franchised out for all the purple

       warming into peepholes online

the storm-rented sky/sea became stationary

       another perfect accident for sadness journos to parse out over

              the future’s raging culture wars that u & i trouble

       for a fleeting exit strategy to the current

maze we fund ourselves in

       & numb to the looming crash of

              summer / winter air

       delicate explosions that fall foam & home

in on the present w/ a superinhuman

              affection / pure surface

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contributor

Toby Fitch

TOBY FITCH lives in Sydney, Australia, works as a bookseller, a teacher, as poetry editor for Overland, and runs the Sappho Books poetry reading series. His books include Rawshock, which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry in 2012, and Jerilderies. ‘After the Orgy’, previously published in Cordite, and ‘Gen Y’ are inversions of two of Rimbaud’s Illuminations, and appear in The Bloomin' Notions of Other & Beau, forthcoming with Vagabond Press.

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