Don’t
Tell Me
Don’t
tell me about summer …
the cicada’s
that sing
with your sweat
as the sun sets
and
you can cool down long enough
to
make love
Don’t
tell me about winter …
the thin shards
of light
that you step in and out of
to remind yourself
that you’re alive
Don’t
tell me about your mainstream homogenised suburbs …
about visual culture
…
about girls and
their man made
obsessions with glossy magazine disease
Don’t
tell me about wars
that you don’t
believe in
because you’re not ever going to put that aside
to pull on some
boots
so
you can feed your family
Don’t
tell me about penis envy …
sexual attraction
…
the lengths and
depth
that your soul could reach
if only I gave
you a chance
Don’t
tell me your heart is broken …
that you are full
of wine …
that you know
poets …
Don’t
tell me of the empathy
you have for refugees
in your comfy ikea’d loungeroom …
of suicide as
a social concern …
of pokie machines
and prostitutes
Don’t
tell me about God …
the land …
breaking the glass
ceiling
that women have invented for themselves
Don’t
tell me about the differences
between men and
women …
the struggle of
the day …
the memories of
love’s gone by …
of regret …
I
have heard these poems before
Tell me you made love to your father …
and liked it
Tell
me you get up to the baby
when he cries
and you rock him gently
when
you just want to shake him …
Tell
me of the conflict of common courtesy …
that you didn’t
give up your seat on the bus
for
the elderly lady
Tell
me you voted liberal
because their
policy’s have weight
and
could make this country
a better place
to live …
or don’t you have the balls?
Tell
me you have thoughts of genocide …
that they crawl
out of your mouth
when
you’re driving
to pick up the
kids
Tell
me your hands cramp with self disgust …
because
you will never drop the blade
Tell
me that the sun is getting closer …
that we won’t
get the bond back
on
this earth when its time
to hand the keys
in
Tell
me the truth …
and lie through
your teeth …
and just write
things down because they feel good …
Because
I’m sick of empty messages …
over processed
ideals on society …
under
imaginative hopes
for the future
and
poems that have no backbone …
Tell
me this is a futile contradiction …
and I’ll
agree with you
Just
tell me something new
Caramel Topping
Standing
at the top of my street
with my thumb
out
the deeper cavities
of my chest
remember that night
we
questioned
if things could get worse
when of course
they could
in a pool hall full of strangers
politely excusing
themselves
for
ribbing each other with cues
a solo acoustic emo nightmare
begging for someone
to
understand
and you standing
there
like two big scoops
of
vanilla
and my shoulders
spooning into
your frame
and the space between our skin
crackling heat
breaking sweat
tickled
pink
two identical battery ends butting heads
static change
caramel
topping
tiny particles of lust
that traveled
with us
pulling the car over
undoing my seatbelt
gently
leaning you into me
then opening the door to the curb
Tea For Sunday
I
drank that tea you gave me
small pot after small pot
on the front & back verandah
in the bath & bed
I
drank that tea you gave me
over Creeley & Cave
Dylan & Saunders
Yevteshenko
Lou Reed & Baccarach
I
drank that tea you gave me
in conversation & silence
when the sun rose
& when the moon
shone black light
with & without cigarettes
between drinks
after suppers
at the end of each rope
I
drank that tea you gave me
all its seasoned storms
brewing in the one tea cup
quite happily without you
Julie
Beveridge
©
Julie Beveridge 2006
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