PLETHORIC AIR

A Poem by Luke Kennard


We all laughed at the decomposing clown,
But afterwards guilt sunk upon us
And we got smashed on the balcony.

I had lost my left shoe in the blood.
The doyen and her ten attachés
Scattered blossom on the divans.

We were charmed by a famous puppy,
A dozen gold pins in her forehead;
A tendency to speak ill of the dead.

‘The dead are so stupid,’ she said.
An attaché took me by the temples and ordered,
‘Look: that advertisement on the crevasse;

Notice the inverted commas around “crazy adventures”
Grow bigger than the words themselves,
Framing the very hills and the valleys.

That chap by the fountain changed his name to #:
But ask him why and he’ll say,
“You’ve got to stand out from the crowd, right?”

And other redundant platitudes.
Disappointment kicks you like an ostrich:
Bloody, sandy and hard.

In other news, we grow weary and suspicious –
And we’ll ask you to defend yourself
Using words we already hold to be meaningless.’

I lay back, bumping my head on the war.
Every solid object has been declared part of the war.
I saw the puppy flex her golden needles.

‘You should talk to this guy,’ I said, ‘he’s funny.’
‘Talk to him?’ she spat.
‘I wouldn’t even eat his brain.’


© Luke Kennard, 2005