rhyme – David Strange

rhyme is the DNA of time. the minor and major groove of a double helix certitude. it swivels and gyrates in a whimsical figure eight. performs an acrobatic hand to hand across the airy phoneme spans. echoes against itself in self-satisfied tunes, the moon of all you can see.

rhyme slams down hard on the dead man’s fingers. spinning on its black red ribbons. snaps on the weight of emotional freight trains at night, bumping into aural couplings and finally on a bell, shunts the metal carriages into end-stopped sidings.

rhyme is words strung together

like dada glue poems, and birds of a feather, jonesing for the key to fly from this psychic misery: the 80-year contract of skin and bone.

rhyme is an illegal passport that we clutch along the asphalt. now the AFP will corner and badge us, as we board the night flight for syria damascus: ‘australian federal poets… step into the cubicle fools, let’s see if the internal rhymes pass out through your stools.’

rhyme curls up like melted super 8

as we begin to free associate

on hot primary colours and now somehow, these disparate sounds are long lost brothers and lonely daydreams our wandering mothers, left by the curb in a psychiatric gown at rydalmere. can you please pick up my mum by the side of the road?

rhyme is promiscuous and seeks out new lovers, a never-ending succession of sweaty sonic partners. It rails against the slut-shaming of words and burns it wire prosody bra, suspecting meter a conspiracy of the petite bourgeois.

rhyme knows the curse of demanding blank verse: the iambic and trochaic ripples, imposes artistic nipple cripple.

rhyme is just karma in the analogy of a dalai lama, and if you happen to be jeffrey l dahmer, your soul is only starting, for the rhyme of hate will have you alliterate and alliterate till you repress your rage in the next reincarnated phase. a refrigerator was never meant for human meat.

rhyme is ts eliot without the bow tie, the poor relation and forgotten Versailles. the wannabe health nut

wearing lorna jane, caught up in agonising calorie shame.

the anaphylactic poet swelling up on Moët, wandering lonely as a beet

across a clouded street, forever searching for its coupling.

words are worth more than I can ever tell you.

rhyme is a hollow narcissist drifting through death, floating on the edge of its own slippery unrest, doomed for a certain term to wander bereft.

rhyme makes friends in a room full of strangers. it breezes up and whispers: kiss me you fool. let’s couple up and echo each other into this canyon of doubt and hold hands across the long empty silences.