She walks off Gamma Road all the poise of one who bends space-time 'fore and aft' hot pipes hemmed with a purr, me— ow and hiss she paints the linen citrus caffeine appears in her hand on demand, three shots she is S. T. Picard. Two AM, a rust stop sign beside a rough wheelbarrow that has just one handle the other wood is lost on an island full of men missing parts of limbs, parts of faces, parts of hearts she ministers the wounds of these casualties from eleven dimension midnight alley knifings. She is S. T. Picard she puts high-heel boot on ahead of dark leather boot on Gamma Road at will caffeine appears in her hand triple fire, she is leaving lemon in the sheets with a hiss and a purr low-entropy pops supersymmetric dissertation over black starlight tracks just where space and time wait so she does not violate relativity. One handle is found on the floor beneath the sticky sanding mattress lying where the mice have wreaked a second props behind the middle brown seventies sofa cushion fading where the springs have leaked a third bobs the tepid bubbleless dirty dishwater sink moulding where the drain has peaked — and a pack of rats live in the soap encrusted bathwater tap -- all where the four handle barrow works 'cause this is her M-extended thesis she would be stolen stationary 'cept space and time move for her and she is busy loading another caffeine shell troika 'cause this is her magic, mystery and mother theory with the fourth barrow handle she has lifted the last clutch of redhead scratch and cut the orange quarters and made the old paired pillowcases purr 'til with each precise stiletto she has become disappearing staccato along Gamma Road she has been S. T. Picard.
The Greatest Grandson of Genghis Kahn comes to Australia
Red poppies bloom eyes and ears I hit this man 'til fingernails flood petals I hit once · · for my brother · · twice for epilepsy given once · · for when they got him again · · · · a repeat to finish with every dirt throne twist · · twice for my dad's flight once · · for his capture with courage redux · · twice for our farm along the valley · · · · south where my wife · · · · was nine-months beautiful · · · · so they gave her a cognate kicking in the guts once · · for the village east · · · · that filled the sky · · · · when men said no · · · · they filled it with charcoal · · twice for the west where choral corpse sings · · · · why bodies lie · · · · for want of Kalashnikov, · · · · they refrain, nomads should reside once twice and once twice more for each town, each block, each house, each room for steep escarpment where I and my brother above grass grazed I with my brother lay out the sun
fingertips drop the stick palms twitch open arms shake loose eyes empty like those of my brother.
-- Andrew Galan an upstairs food court writer in exile Andrew Galan lives in Canberra, Australia. His poetry has been published in print and digital anthologies, magazines, and phone applications in Chile, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, Ireland, the United States, and Australia—including in The Best Australian Poems 2011. He has featured at festivals and venues on Australia’s east coast, and with Hadley, Joel, and Amanda, he co-founded BAD!SLAM!NO!BISCUIT! at The Phoenix Pub. Andrew also writes and performs with The Tragic Troubadours. His website is Huitzilihuitl’s Reign of Death.