Implausible Birds

Implausible Birds

by K. Robinson






The sort of vase described in
Ian McEwan's novel, Atonement.

A gift. A curse on me self-cast. A Sino-sin

I signed with my intent, and all Verdun's

exploding wealth now written in my skin;

my brain forever battered by those guns.



Or was it a theft? Sometimes a man concussed

would seem quite sound, so peaceful in repose.

Inside - a soupy

"Pigs" by Les Murray

Us all on sore cement was we.
Not warmed then with glares. Not glutting mush
under that pole the lightning's tied to.
No farrow-shit in milk to make us randy.
Us back in cool god-shit. We ate crisp.
We nosed up good rank in the tunnelled bush.
Us all fuckers then. And Big, huh? Tusked
the balls-biting dog and gutsed him wet.
Us shoved down the soft cement of rivers.
Us snored the earth hollow,