Toby Fitch

          A Frank Ocean

 

          Pretty fucking pink and white under moonlight, a
          Ferrari cloud and tech company throw big shade.
          Chandeliers in pyramids and the cyanide in my cup
          tremble from the force. Breathing pheromones, I
          forget my first love—your eyes haunt the bathwater.

          Aliens are watching this live.

          Out by the pool little mermaids gel like twigs in
          lemonade, green leaves turn to vapour, weed
          crumbles into glitter, the acid rain’s blue.

          The only human in this humid Facebook story, in
          these Balmains, in this domesticated paradise of palm
          trees and limes—is me—but my whole body’s see-
          through, you know, a virtual thing, and yet still the
          showerhead feels amazing, like cheetahs on the loose.

          Can we make love before you go, eat some shrooms,
          maybe have a good cry? I don’t know what it’s like
          with a skirt on but Jasmine fucking wrecked my heart,
          waves sucked the air from the pool, the kids off the
          roof, a tornado shed tears into my room. I woke and
          you were planets round my forehead.

          The pink and purple matter of sky and stars, quiet
          like a quaalude, will keep me warm and transmit the
          waves back into the grapevine of my spine.

          Hey do you think my brain’s just a container for
          peaches and mangoes? The way you say my name
          makes me light hangglide off the moon.

          The whole galaxy wants to see nirvana wet your lips.
          Hand me a towel, a bucket of bleach—the truth is
          obsolete.

          I watch you fix your hair, put your panties on in the
          mirror—like a kid Cleopatra—then your lipstick.
          Your wet dreams, brash as fuck, breach all these
          aquaducts, and I’m a nervous forest.

 

 


 

 

          Memememememememememe

 

          you’re a ghost driving
          a meat-coated skeleton made from stardust
          riding a rock hurtling through space

                    fear nothing


          i’m a hurt spaced-out
          a driven rook made from the skull of a teen
          star-riddled in the dust-coat of your ghost-mates

                    near frothing


          oi Darcy / meet your derivative
          skulling ten riddles your constellated face aghast
          hunkering down in its ruts

                    freezing now


          this dastardly place reeks
          goats scale the coastline arriving hot
          in the past we dive

                    free zoning


          like a rattlesnake / guts consternate
          cut to the skin tone of a dribbling writer wracked
          heart in a moat

                    phone home ting


          coagulating in the Metro gusts
          hightail it thru righteous cups the stars spill from
          haunting at water-over-rocks pace

                    enough things


          i’m baroque / tarring the dark
          a Goethe riding the coat-tail drivel of aces
          my skeletons’ll mete out

                    fairy tongued


          as in a cat / skilled
          in spatial awareness yet gauche on a hotrod
          en route to meat you / a dove in Ryde

                    nether fling


          you’re dirigible / like methane goes to show
          Kurt’s killer tone stunned us
          rude Hz dead rocket face

                    night feeling


          i’m inchoate / a goner / your ghost
          all surface / matt & not cute / not deriving from
          stardust / cotton / road / horse

                    from no thing

 

 

 

 

Toby Fitch is poetry editor of Overland. His most recent book of poems The Bloomin’ Notions of Other & Beau is out through Vagabond Press. He has lived in the inner west of Sydney for almost exactly half of his life.

 

 

 

 

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