Once off the ship from sector blah blah
she checks into a spa in Baden Baden,
wet air spiced with a pile of old Who's Whos
and warm custardy wafts of ylang ylang.
Only the new filtration system's murmur
and three perfect smiles of pawpaw.
Bowls heaped with wild mushroom couscous
suit the one girl from Wagga Wagga
who knows her rendang from her gado gado.
Bright and rare as a golden bulbul
she caught on quick, so flicked the froufrou,
went off-piste: first tai chi, then the cha cha.
Love's dance, though: now that was lose-lose.
They often wound up tangled in her yoyo.
The holiday in Crete they fought like kri kri,
or way back in the early days in Woy Woy
when she went walkabout with the .22,
blood blurring loud above the never never,
visions surely no one else had had
(her naked papa brandishing his atlatl).
Day-to-day distress remains hush-hush
and being seen wallowing is a booboo—
so Fuck you all, she sighs, and pooh pooh
to the pricks skeptical of my juju ...
Hence the spa, hence the Liszt by Lang Lang.
The diurnal chaconne is in four-four,
night's celloed maestoso, otto-otto.
Autumn shook its crisping ochre pom-pom
when in the thermal mists of Baden Baden
she winked back from her replica tuk tuk
at old sector blah blah, and clinked cin cin.
The Kenyon Review
March / April 2017