Ashlley Morgan - Shae lives in Melbourne, Australia. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Professional Writing and Fine Art and has been published in many Australian literary magazines. Her three books are Dancing at Dusk, New Cities (Grendon Press) and Love Trash (Five Islands Press). More of Ashlley's poems can be viewed at http://homepages.ihug.com.au/~ashlley
--------
THEORY OF DICKS
I look for height
I figure dick size is in
proportion to height
My friend's mother believes
big hands mean
big dicks - it's why
she married her husband
My ex's brother says
'We have big noses and
big dicks - and he's right
about the noses
My ex tells me
'Chinese are small
White boys can be lucky
Black men are big' - after I tell
him about the cute Asian boy I met
I still believe in
the perfect fit - when
you're in love it's
right - when you go
off them they are
just that bit too small
--------
DREAMING OF PINEAPPLES
That night I dreamt of pineapples
and when my cousin asked where
I wanted to go, what to see,
I said I wanted to know how it was now
Along the road to the Sunshine Coast,
at Nambour, the Big Pineapple stood.
I hadn't seen it for thirty years
but I remembered the Golden Circle juice cans
In the paddocks Conrad dug in
pineapple heads. A sixth generation farmer,
he showed me the four growings: roothead
to leaf, to flower, to 18-month gold-orange fruit
'We used to kill one crow and string it up
to keep the others away,' he said. 'Smart birds,
sit when I come out with a stick,
only fly when they see a gun.'
'Half the farms have gone into sugar-cane,'
he said. 'Pineapples take a long time to
grow. We only get 30 cents each one.'
City-bred, I looked at the open sky
The tourist sugarcane train had trundled
its last lot of passengers; the front gate
closed. My cousin was looking for me.
Conrad gave me a three-headed pineapple
'He's twenty-five and single,' the gate-man
said. 'You won't remember me,' Conrad said.
In Queensland I danced in wintersun warm waves
and everynight sucked on juicy pineapples
It's a fruit, it's a flower
It's the summer of an hour
Sliding hold of gold
Sweet-fellow to devour
It's a thing, it's to sing
A story home to bring
Venture out, gad-about
Kiss it, eat it, make it sting
It's a fruit, it's a flower
It's the addict's underpower
The tart taste on the tongue
The swallow of its dower
It's the croon, it's the boon
It's the lazy afternoon
The orange of fanatical
Live-so-sweet, so soon
It's the gleam that I've seen
Tropic date of fielded dream
Going home, weighs a stone
I have heavy heart and steam
It's a fruit, it's a flower
It's the juicy, golden bower
Pineapple Queen of Fruit
You're the summer of my hour
--------
WHERE I GREW UP
We hid out down by the river
Near the long grass and burnt-out cars
We drank till we couldn't remember
And passed out under the stars
The hole where I grew up
Vroom Vroom, on a roll
Death was to be a dag
Boys scabbed all your fags
School prison had screws with no idea
Boys hung assignments in trees
Someone was always running on the roof
There was no swimming, no equipment, no keys
The dole where I grew up
Some days half the class wagged
Every bus-stop wore black-texta slag
At home a look was clue to get out
A yell meant a brawl the whole night
Red wounds were to teach lessons
Nosy cops said juveniles have no rights
The role where I grew up
Vroom Vroom, on a roll
Top chicks at parties and hot car drags
It was no excuse to have your rags
I would walk the highway at midnight after work
Getting night-vision for shadows in the park
Happy for car headlights to keep moving
I was bred to find cover in the dark
The goal, where I grew up
Teachers were stupid, old hags
A dream was to drive a black jag
My mechanic was beaten in a divvy van
My cabinet-maker had five dope convictions
My best friend's sister left and hooked for heroin
I used big words and created up-myself frictions
The toll where I grew up
Vroom Vroom, on a roll
You are lucky in love to have a good shag
Someone who doesn't start to nag
A pregnant friend dropped out of school
Sat at home with three kids, beer and boyfriend
Her eyes got as closed as her mother's
The family house was the stuck living end
Home was the hole you crawled to
Work was without satisfaction
Money was what other people had
Fight was a criminal reaction
In the soul where I grew up
Vroom Vroom, on a roll
You're lucky in love to have a good shag
A dream was to drive a black jag
--------
TOO
He wants
to root
to boot to toot
to scoot
her
He wants
to stamp
to clamp to tramp
to damp
her
He wants
to bus
to fuss to muss
to truss
her
He wants
to bind
to mind to rind
to wind
her
He wants
to ruff
to buff to tuff
to duff
her
He wants
to fizz
to sizz to tizz
to wizz
her
He wants
to hum
to bum to slum
to cum
her
He wants
to please
to tease to ease
to sleaze
her
He wants
to ram
to bam to wham
to slam
her
He wants
to back
to whack to rack
to hack
her
He wants
to bleep
to deep to sleep
to keep
her
He wants to - get - her
together
--------
GENES
My father had unloved genes from his
mother who battered him with a
hairbrush. He met my mother who had
her own genes. She had been the
smallest and had watched her sisters
go out to balls while she stayed at home.
They passed their genes down to me
My gene genii
Hangs with doom rats
Black and blood swing bats
Plays junkie jazz-cats
In gene-pool mud-spats
I cut them up, re-sewed them, wore
them as street-hip and knocked them
about the house. Those genes pulled
other like-minded pairs towards me.
Guys like my father - good-looking and
prone to unzipped anger. I acted like
my mother - dressing in cardis and
undoing my sexy genes for love.
My gene genii
He's a kiss-and-smell block
A luck-ring in hock
Has not a long cock
Is a gene hard-knock
My mates were musicians, actors,
dancers, great dreamers. One wrote
a song about loving his blue, blue jeans.
He felt more in the song than in me.
Now my genes, not having been handed
on, are wearing out. But the unloved
gene will carry on. With its 'Look
at me. Love me please' blue blood-dye.
It's the gene of a generation.
My gene genii
No affectionate rub
Hallucinatory grub
Makes friends in the pub
Throws my bod ash-stub
The unloved gene is as catchy as a virus
The unloved gene survives in every climate
The unloved gene is on a billboard poster
The unloved gene is in a person close to you
Back
