transit of venus

standing on top of the helicopter counting
the bristles of my toothbrush
i look down but not back
for with precision instruments we’re raked
a vision of my next career move pins my eyes
but it turns out to be just another thundercloud
to hack through like one more enemy toad
gliding past black n red wreckages
in whose erstwhile spans we’re serried
as one — whether baggage attendant pilot or stag beetle
we kiss one another’s lofty bitumen with creaking lips

my lust for diesel is becoming
a problem n water’s too hard
though other possible arcs are continually amassing
like almond milk or intratelluric menses
that help me through the dilation of the monsoon season
lulled by so many engines n alien dialects

about the garbage press
the circular koan foreseen by the oracle composes itself
trips on a splattered helmet
pronouncing radio static that implores me to return
to my neglected duties to world’s best practice rooftop dining,
silt deposits n jubilant mastication
mammoth concerns devour one another in the lagoon
i’ll have to leave the slack-water revert to aerobic status
even as the advancing front engulfs what little
oxygen i’d extracted n carried through

suns set at 9am
after peak hour broke its banks
damaging conveyors n other infrastructure
it is time to pick up my thighs
from the dry-cleaners. no cash
so steam torture in its stead
platoons flush by too quick to indict
though silken families stranded on the pontoon
compliment my figure, at once
offering their condolences n implying
the loss was worth it all told
but their countenances turn with my shoulder

in the application window tread on the
heads of the buoyant while
distilling new perfumes to compliment
the scum of enslavement
i frankly didn’t lack a post (i’ve blades) but
to run with the exhumed midst manifolds
lengthens the spinal casing improves bee fertility
n at time of writing no synthetic substitute
has yet appeared on the open market

then so spruced, break left, set course for
high-voltage transmission lines
for the great axis has at last been precisely determined.
they’re winking as adult themes in children’s books
but to whom? so am i:
not even the blind could miss em

Marty Hiatt

Marty Hiatt is a Melbourne poet currently based in Berlin.

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