Melinda Smith

Murder at the poetry conference

 

The old pesticide factory
casts a buzz-saw shadow
on the wall of the council chambers.
Inside, the poets sit like aldermen.
They talk of war and genocide,
harrowing themselves silly.
At night they retire to soft floral sheets, flocked wallpaper.
They dream
infinite shelves of books with tilted spines –
M and N shapes staggering away;
leather the colour of blood.

 

from Drag down to unlock or place an emergency call
Published by Pitt Street Poetry

 

 
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