Category Archives: Les Wicks


Les Wicks

Minor hits of 1970s,
pulse of an expanding timber the
last convulsion of the sun.
Swanbourne Beach Stud Poker
possum pissing trumps
the electricals.

Slap about
this useless Truth who can’t
get off his arse to wash my uniform…
thwack of the willow
this impossible cricket
about a strut of galah.

Harmony would only stick to our shoes,
reticence is for wimps
which we are of course I
need to be drunk just to face this poem.
But that marsupial growl
swashbuckling swoop of magpie we all
butter up before dinner.

Every eye hurts
I face paper its
tear, a coffee stain
that frightful, tenuous permanence.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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