Short (September)

 September is when John Ashbery dies, then. I remember him at the ‘Flow Chart’ Festival session. A publisher asked him what he was writing. He confided to all 100plus of us he was writing short seven or nine line poems, did we know how that felt? The publisher did not know how that felt. September is a school uniform. September’s a boat ride. September is a lover’s tiff. September is a half-forgotten philosopher. The publisher asked John Ashbery about new poets he liked. Ashbery named three or four emerging poets, but I think he made them up on the spot.

Short (April)

Outside short Brunswick Street shopfronts locals make short work of cigarettes. A tramload of short views glides by. Café woman in short top meets man who’d better like short tops. A short-film director drops names into his short black. Short dog meanders between angled wheels and gutter. Balwyn couples look from short car windows for a restaurant carpark short space. Short badges sparkle over loominescent murals. Armadale moonlighters pamper stomachs then poison livers in short order. April saves daylight in a short vase of everlastings. Short sentences will meet, shelved and nice, in the lavish bookstore at an outrageous price.