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Holden HQ Wreck is Summers End

the blue HQ @ Clifton Hill 

like a warrior yes an octogenarian KRISNA
who’s dragged himself ashore from the river
tacho. punched in the dash, pink-drugged carpet
wheels cemented to a full stop, only the ‘gs’
of the razed Kings Wood, dated by the dept.
as indefinite Collingwood Baroque, making the standard
everywhere voluptuary, where now (O!
O?) is your beer blown charioteer, bronze arm’d
nut swoll’n Cad?  Sun fragments its disks
to be a bit Blitza, red Science Fiction shade,
spots of mould from creek runnels, porked floaties
over exposed nymphemes at the 3:05 p.m Busstop
                                              Schoolskirt   Colloquium
she’s maggots she’s intimatism she’s all
saith our flag, the Southern tilt tricolour
‘how shall we trans-port
               the mush of paradise?’


Go to Duncan Hose's profile to read more poems