friday 13th november 1987

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Friday 13 November 1987
(on meeting Tyronne Phillip Fischer)


So sweet the meat, the hallowed arc
His forehead flashes to my nose;
To cleave, to cabbage-crunch. So sweet,
The bloody dump of pumping me:
So hot agush my shocked throatdown,
And crimson bursts my shirtfront.

Wall eyes abrim with sinblack faith,
His smile a yard of tombstones with
No earthly breath to dry their moss-
Damp postscripts from the void - that sharp
Skull suck gives only weight to tilt
His business lean to toe-tips,

For the extra leverage he
Needs to swing his club up through my
Balls. Shoulders bulging, head down now
As if he were some shunter, some
Giant engine strained to push a
Hundred coalfull trucks through points

All rusted since the war. Which war?
I ask, aghast to think of more,
Of bigger, badder, more fucked war -
Shit! This mad cunt's for real! He's killed
My cods! His waddy whacking bone
Not hit like this before, my

Baby cradle there where mothers
Have no cods at all - just hollow
Swamps where killers crawl and simple
blokes like me. Or did. No more of
That delight, because tonight, I
Meet our Father which art Death

On the End of a Stick. And now
As the body retches forward
Across the broken cock, the face
Still squirting hot artery blood,
The mind screams panic orders to
Slam the fucking firedoors and

Shut the receptors down clunk! clunk!
Clunk! He swings back in his singlet
Torso, guts now ruts of tightning
Muscle furrows, murderous in
Their tension, chrome springs stretched against
Blue cotton, his hair trigger

Filed off from the start. There is no
Stopping now. So from away back,
A yard behind his warrior frizz
And triumphant jaw, from the end
Of his cartooned sledgehammer paw,
Rain down the finishing shots:

One, two, three, four - each breaching so
Easily the skullflesh, each swing
More gold for Australia, each
Blow a psalm of victory, a
Sweetener for the bloodfilled throat,
A scytheman reaping braincells

By the lobe, chopping the cushion,
The last crop of hair, the final
Tight helmet of flesh. The smooth thought
Creche peels back, layer by layer,
Opening the mains of life, to
Let these dogs of me run free

At last to sky, in great red bursts
Of lifedog, the sprinkler of the
Heart, flooding here the street outside
The pub, where, drained atop the bar
My pintglass slides its endfroth down
Its sides like a nice slow piss.


Philip White












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