Pope Pinocchio’s Trees 


Si I can speak bulldozer. And 

I know the words for cherry-

Rot and sleigh scrape. Trees make 

A lot of false friends. Acorns 

Are nothing like a sneeze 

Or nonsense. Let them breathe. Let 

Them smoke if they want



   I have known some bitter trees and they were not 




   What I’m going to do 

Is put up 

A clothesline through these elms 

& planes 

& hang them with white garments 

As a sign of surrender



   You will see 

How birds avoid 




   I’m not afraid to put birch leaves 

On my plate when lunching with the corrupt. I

Am inclined to drop ‘waratah’ into the midst of 




   In the night I will leave you and 

Press against a lamp post, avoiding assassins, wind






      Journey Into Quietude 



beautiful in certain Lights. every now and then She feels a Switch

go on inside. or off. like a Lover her Lips quiver for the City

there’s a Potion for that. when her Husband sees the Reels, He

avows, on the Retake, to push her Creditor in the Fire. He hasn’t

many Minutes of Screen time. it’s perhaps a Tragedy that the

Audience laughs. a handsome Prig may seem more attractive

than a Liar, or Sop. We must think ahead. once there are Computers

Robots, then They’ve always been there appreciating Beauty

the finer Things, as if They’d no connection with the World

as if They weren’t also Impoverishments. the Women of the

Village can’t smell Her, can’t see Her as one of Them. She

has no Vanity: is Silk, is Carpet, is Shells on a Plate. write a

Note, kiss a Guy, all is Frisson. a new Current, a new Action

and She wonders for how long? and then She feels it coming

to an End, when She sees Everyone as mechanic around Her

She is real, she, Emma b., as real as shakespearean Machines

as Don quixote. there is no Dishonour, dying in a Forest. She

sees her automated Forebears rusting in the Litter, the Macbeths

et al. are there normally so many Birds and Foxes in the Forest

singing and yelping their Hearts out? She imagines Herself

in the Bon marché. there’s Music, Customers, Cash registers

Noise. a Talent agent spots Her. You have the Face of Anne

boleyn, They say. but the Film papers give Her the Chop. She

asks the Actor playing the Chemist for Pills. her Husband has

a Crush on Her. He is looking Everywhere in the provincial

Town. on the Heath, where She used to run in the Mornings

in the Salons, where She ate her daily Carbs. at the Beginning

of the Film, She plays a Death scene, it’s a form of Audition

no, She tells Him, it’s not a good Time to separate, there’s

a Recital next week, I’m between Lovers, and need a Prescription

She plays a Woman that’s never been played: never one so

fashionable, never One so Automatic. He operates on her Hand

and finds a Tendon but She says no, it’s a Wire. as the Film runs

on He finds her decomposed Body in a dry Creek; then a Bustle 

then Fabergé (a Scarf). He half-morphs into Her, while the Actor

who played her tours as Elizabeth the first. She plays her as a deaf

genius Composer; with Raleigh as her Ears for the Applause









all I wanted from Parenting was Peace and Cake

Quiet and Tart. like a tobacco-coloured 

Cloud, the Flies buzzed on

the Chooks were fed, in German and Church

Corn, Wheat, bible Ashes

my Mother comes in, carrying a Bear 

and a Baby. a Cat drops a Pinecone 

on my Grandmother’s Lap and She kisses both Bringer 

and Brought. the Rats stay in the Hay

the Talking doesn’t stop. the Woman at the Fire’s 

my second Cousin. the Sheep are out 

the Window, over the River. the Clock tells only 

of Seasons. on the Wall, Paintings of Women

in Frocks, decorated with Flowers like Cows’

Eyes. I play with the Boarder’s Daughter 

on the Sofa. a Game of Euchre. the Queens 

of Jam spread thinly on the Cloth. circle 

in. take the ‘T’ from your Bone and hold 

It out like it divines Emus, or Peacocks

my Grandfather looks up as Roots and Boots 

appear through the Ceiling. You have a Piece 

of Perth in your Beard, I observe. a Cat 

drops a Bluebell on my Grandmother’s Slice of Bread

my Mother’s back, and carries ten 

plum Puddings on her Head. did You stir 

the Copper in the Manner of Shakespeare’s – Joyce’s

Witches? the KLF burning the last 

NME? my Brother hates Verisimilitude 

when applied to Himself. my Sister will never 

look in a Mirror. my Mother plays 

DVDs of Corroborees: learn your Culture

no One is restless; Everyone queues 

to shake the dog’s Hand. Night will come 

soon enough, with its Lanterns blue 

its Jackets army. We are sowing Lucerne 

in the Hall. We use Bark and tractor Tires 

for Kindling. I’m stirring Pancake 

batter with a dreamy Trap or Bell 

strap. the View on the opposite Side 

as dry as a Prune tree. a Cat 

brings my Grandmother some String 

and She makes a Chandelier with it



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