Peter Minter

I just do eyes, j-j-just eyes

Men with orange shovels (sure!
arrive at the dawn of life
& I return to the same strange dream:
the colour of iron leaks over the lens cap
& pine trees in cool, extrinsic blocks
fall into a sentence from above.
'As if!' they call from the dream before,
 'ode to joy' constantly risking absurdity

like a 'freud elegy stanza', slavish in
twilight chromatics. The hydrogen jukebox
stacks it then, sheaves of brilliant yellow
hills are alive with the sound of music
cry as the wasted crows as they rise
& fall back, so hammer & thongs...no joke!

Realisable Desire

All the oars fell in time.
So they handed me a daiquiri, chord chains
pegged to the ol' dunes
spinifex ziggurat, sea gulls
hot white in another morning chill, indigo toes
silhouetted by hard & startled swells.
They sat still and looked out,
Speedos brooding, falcon Circe

singing up a hip spray.
I was half-way there, surf-cap
histrionic, sea stars & little whelks
gathered in my shin-wakes, a dolphin
barrelling up the breakers
impervious to ersatz romance.