Tony Kitt

Tony Kitt

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Limboed

I move, I am the release clause
of a pea pod, a skylark, a planet.
If you call me the world, will you provide
a fitting cradle?

These non-existent "for no-one/for everyone" things:
a faucet of emotions, a window mist of yearning...
I could be a rain river,
I could be the jettisoned air.

Petrichor. Trepidations. The greener
the sleepwalker, the steeper the roof.
I've got no identification to write upon.
Don't catacomb me here.

The mirror fogs the future us.
The time is now. The place is
placelessness. When I scream,
out comes a sea fret.


First published in Axon Journal, Australia.




Motherland-In-Law

I discovered a judge in a journalist,
a jail in a journey.
Things are untheorised.
I am my motive, I use a borrow snail
to attain stealth.

My sophistry is sleeping in the rosary.
Welcome, my nineteenth objector!
Our fruit eyes picture the planet
as an ice globe, a melt.
Every pear has a pink heart.

Men who exist in written form;
a night wrapped in "what you are not."
Which parts of your body are owned
by the department of nonsense and which ones
by the mind military?

Withering ideas linger
in the fear-brick kennel. No eyes
burrow through their fig leaves.
Do we need a dogma in a tall skirt
or a shot of sanity?

No one hedges us into being here.
History freezes our breath.
Lemongrass never says never.
Who will sing us
into the season of no season?


First published in Axon Journal, Australia.




In Mid-Air

I once stumbled across a man
dressed in information. He antennoed
his hands, as the trapdoor of space
opened for him. Nothing

but sparks of disinterest,
or disinfection of statistics.
What was mirrored in his irises?
In his zen-book?

He logged in to emptiness and watched
the circumstances fly by. He
followed them at his peril.
Away with the leprechauns!

In mid-air, frightened wing assistants realised
they had an Icarus on board.
An undocumented one.
They wouldn't be allowed to land. They began

rationing oxygen. The flying device
was called philosophy. Everybody
was asking his ozonised mind,
Estne equus credibilis?

The moral machine entertained the passengers
with a quiz:
Is there a hunter fond of unhunting?
Is it so hard to believe in phlogiston?


First published in Axon Journal, Australia.


Note. Estne equus credibilis? is a paraphrase of the line from Virgil (Aeneid, II. 48-49): equo ne credite (don't trust this horse).



Ninety Years a Grove

Our articulate necks, our sap friendships...
It's ninety years since we cross-specied
into trees, ninety years
since the rooting out of movement.

First came bobtailed bonuses for staying put
during the national discharge. Then we
let out leaves to elevate oxygen levels.
Now they cut off our limbs for fire.

The parenthetical god, his
trial rabbits...
Why can't we make our future
incubatable and reusable?

We dare not speak of railways
or airports. We speak of fire ways,
instead of fairways.
Roads speak of the absence of dust.

Bulbul birds soil our hair; bush-baby drizzle
laments our dead buds.
The spiders who study the bark
can't cobweb our hollow heartbeat.

After ninety years, genetic memory
won't save us.
After ninety years, who can
resurrect a race?


First published in Axon Journal, Australia.




Weather Forecast

Dead warriors of the wind;
their eye sockets
full of typography...

They pocket hailstones
of denial. They spell Draco's New Law
with their bodies.

Death is the way to avoid
further punishment,

spurts the oversized voice.

Billboards; the weather forecast
for tyrants. The silky breeze
of invasion, the clouds

of zero doubt. The thirty-first tyrant
breathes a black candle in his bunker.
He's busy writing uninhabited poems.


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




In the Garden of Sounds

I kill you by naming you.
Because people are all breath.
If one speaks against autocrats,
his autobiography will be kept
in a cage.

Man is the sum of postures he
dreams up. Every vigilante
carries a weathervane.
Your mutation can be tried
in a juvenile court.

One who wields an edge
may get wedged. An ex-emperor
sings Blue Moon backwards
as he delivers his apostrophic empire
for a post mortem.


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




Down the Grete Stern's Well

Women are flying trees
wandering hands of the world

Crosses dream of becoming ladders
The weight of the moon is
too much for you
let's bleach our
biographical blotches

We giraffe through the continent
and take a trainsnake
to the eyes' coast
we fall into somebody's nostrils
and find our way onto a billboard

A spy in the sky
the self-evidence of cages
Hello this is your inner tiger speaking
without a mouth
How far can you go
if you carry non-being with you?

Cages break
into smaller cages


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




The Cornerstone of Tomorrow

Life you've been wading through, its
calligraphy... The boulders behind your back
practice the baby smile of footballers.
You collect church seashells, you invite

every dogsbody to your misbalance day – all this
plus the whisper of chrysalids will lead you
through this green parallelogram, the trapdoor of sleep,
to some "more often than not" place.

Thinking is a malady of our own interjection,
the stratagem of bewilderment.
Do you know all your "not-yets" yet?
We can see you, otherness, your eyes climbing

that cliff, following the path across abstraction.
The sea always sings goodbyes; the waves' mouths
gasp for phraseology. Tomorrow is a chanting megalith;
today, a building under destruction.


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




Violin

Poet inhabits a shagreen leather coffin.
Dressed in Vivaldi and strung together
with his hollowness, he yearns
for the warmth of the imaginable.

His body is staccato
suppressing legato; each breath,
a flageolet of defiance. Threads of the earth
originate in his shoulder.

Only the nameless dwell in the heart
of non-being. Poets unclaimed by any tribe
breathe their way through the void.
Autumn is in the rainwater of their eyes.


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




Metronome

In the vacuum of the moment, I accosted Prokofiev's metronome. The flute of a mute answered. Also, two walking billboards (after a brief consultation), both depicting Stalin, with an inscription saying "Elect one, get another free."
   "Rhythm... you can find it everywhere, even in your breakfast statistics," the metronome finally ticked out. "It governs us communistically, and is rather crunchy. Taste it."
   Prokofiev's octofingers were making music of survival, his eyes sparkling with mindquirks. The weather man was bathing inside his liquid baritone. Stalin's portrait waved to the frame it had left behind and occupied the sky.


First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland.




The Invisible Cinema

Over and over again,
the red-tinted movie
of my address book:
houses collapsing,
people going into exile,
dying.

To an outsider's eye,
some names,
digits.


First published in Shot Glass Journal, USA.





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