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<p><b>Adrian Wiggins</b> likes catalogues and Lego. He lives in Australia.</p>


<p class="poem">
<b>[You’re savvy]</b><br />
<br />
You're savvy about the stars;<br />
their inscrutable twinkly scrim eggs<br />
you on, back through the screen<br />
door, down the creaking hall, past your rivals<br />
and friends yabbering on, a zephyr<br />
at your back. She just might<br />
give over – the wet electric<br />
mental whirrings sputter<br />
and pfut – a sexual vignette<br />
coalesces – ah – oh – the fall of her hair,<br />
her dress full of promise, her scissoring legs<br />
pedalling about the credenza.<br />
<br />
<br />
Later, listening to a late night tune<br />
on the World Music Show<br />
– a mysterious Shetland tune –<br />
writer unknown – austere<br />
and short-lived – a lilting luminosity<br />
and so-on, something so generous<br />
you almost pop – strange then<br />
the darker it got the better you heard<br />
the benign ratcheting of your own entropy<br />
over the party reeling on, the clatter<br />
of the carpet bowls as they overshot<br />
the hall runner and dashed across the parquetry<br />
the easy laughter, the clinking glasses<br />
</p>


<p class="poem">
<b>All the Frantic Weak</b><br />
<br />
The friend rose light and mean and smooth<br />
as the black sea "I use up forests shot<br />
with crying – here, see me, my white dress<br />
its diaphonous pornography –<br />
how I warp the street."<br />
A reflexive detachment indicates<br />
modernism, catalogues, high<br />
fibre – there’s oncologists for everything<br />
but this – I dream a dream of you, I wanted<br />
you I wanted you<br />
dead now my puddle-duck we waddle up<br />
the hard high road and I recall<br />
an easy winter till we ripped<br />
up summer’s honey apparatus –<br />
your incantatory chant blazing away "Shine Sun<br />
your hotpants spray enormous<br />
love at waxy purple death" in bed<br />
a symphony's bloody power boils the void<br />
red-faced and drunk<br />
with effort – oh you<br />
set me going like a fat<br />
batch of erections.<br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Weddings flatter<br />
the married, wound the singular, baffle<br />
the newlyweds,  and for some reason sunny<br />
Saturdays are taken<br />
up with this – how we stare abashed<br />
by a contract – come Monday we1re back<br />
beating those suits with a thousand<br />
elaborate clubs. Ask me<br />
to picture you chained<br />
girl wanting gorgeous eternity<br />
when firstly I loved up near you all stormy<br />
and proximate like worship.<br />
<i>None</i>, you say, <i>may use<br />
my sweet arm to stop<br />
their ache. Nothing is shocking<br />
you now, which makes you suddenly<br />
sullen. Fare thee well.</i><br />
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will rains<br />
from milk and time – it is here<br />
go shake iron at it, hit<br />
on it sleeping and rob<br />
all the frantic weak.<br />
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