Pulled Apart by Seahorses - by Gavin Yates
ISLAND | ISSUE 159Olive’s, seven in the evening, the tomatoes suffused with Viognier
from the online store, but Ella Fitzgerald, who has sung to these
walls before, where deleted lichen has rapidly come on like a fever.
Variation on board. There were whaling stations from Eden to
Port Fairy and over; roses removed with a child’s spade, slagheap,
bloody perfume. According to the Treaty of Versailles, Germany were
to pay 132 billion marks in reparations. Boutonnières, pneumonia,
hoof prints to the necropolis. Windward the fierce, moving image:
pincushions contain every arm and rumour of the artery, north or south,
point and obliterate. Apollinaire never recovered from his injuries.
Green rockets colour the black sky, go back and die elderly. Blind spots
fill the gaps, a perforated bulb. Giant pines grow at the border, larger
than any indication. In hindsight: obviously. Socrates pulled apart by
seahorses, dances endless of the new hemlock, as Matthew Flinders
had observed of the Southern Ocean. ▼
This poem appeared in Island 159 in 2020. Order a print issue here.
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