Bass Straitened 


We’ve left the main-man behind,
can’t see his friend.                             
I’m shaking in a washing-machine
sea, drowning under the doona,
sicking eleven times.
I escape to other doonas,
listen to vases becoming unstuck.
Bacon is a stench
as it is to a vegan,                                 
the ground a floppy pillow.
I won’t go down
the river today.

 


After the Tsunami

 


Watching Jack the Ripper on telly
(closing my eyes for the throat-cutting)
I lie on the couch, turquoise throw wrapped
around, in the cool of a summer’s night.

In the bedroom I see him lying in a pale
lemon sheet, limbs encased except for an arm
thrown out over the edge
like a corpse from the Tsunami.

And even though I am used to it, I know
from his orange beard that he is a man
not like a corpse from the Tsunami
where they say you couldn’t always tell.

©  Lyn Chatham 2008

Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
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For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow

 

 

Lyn Chatham

I’m shaking in a washing-machine
sea, drowning under the doona,