I. Reassembling Osiris

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             unpopular

                             death row prisoners

                             racialised

                             doormen for death

                             stayed by emotion

                             (totally without merit)

                             arbitrarily

                             appeals

                             to old authority

                             one man

                             . . .

                             . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

with mass appeal           

no, equal           

PACP           

captains of lives           

with good reason           

(exhausted all rights and)           

assented to by many           

wasting resources           

considered law           

an assembly           

. . .           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(mandible)

(C-1)

(snap)

(C-3)

(C-4)

(C-5)

(C-6)

(C-7)

(T-1)

(T-2)

(T-3)

(T-4)

(T-5)

(T-6)

(T-7)

(T-8)

(T-9)

(T-10)

(T-11)

(T...)

 

 

 

II. The Weighing of the Heart

 

Call me Anubis.
I have the scales and a rubber jackal mask.
Beneath us a green mouth opens and shuts.

 

I hold neat golden scales
and on one end is a feather.

 

While I swing them with my hip cocked
take the saws and clamps,
make the coroner’s cut and scoop.

 

Place their heart on the other end.
Watch it dip – oh,

 

dammit. Fine! Ammit, stay!
– I hear you approach
with some new case.

 

Don’t drag this out more than you must.
There are lives and taxpayer dollars at stake.
This scale is fine, its construction divine.
If you wish, inspect my snout, soul, and soles:


when I kill it’s always on tiptoe;
death’s not the lowest hanging fruit.

 

 

 

III. The Opening of the Letters

 

Not barbaric or rare,
not contrary, not done for the bit
or raring for it, not tar or rat or rabbit;
not brit, neither tabby nor brat. 

 

But bagged. Rib on tray, brutal ray,
belay barbiturates in the bay.
Bar with tariff, bray and bait.
It’s at this bitter art we win.


Something frays on the flap.
Betray air. Bury it.

 

 

 

IV. The Barge

 

Any boat is built of at least one wood piece.
Any work is made of at least one statement.
Any statement may not originate from its speaker.
Any statement may not originate from life.
A statement or several are considered a statement.
This statement stores at least one false statement of fact.

 

 

 

V. The Potter's Wheel

 

I’m smart enough to keep my family in my pocket.
They rehydrate when I drop them in a cup of water
and leave them to bubble overnight.

 

Plus my crimes are not of powder, nor tincture,
nor loose and sneaky leaf, but shares 
in heatwaves – smuggled Panadol.
Rolex. Sorry, my name’s Oh? 
I’ve a near-dead pottery master in Tokyo.

 

There’s no flight risk in his clay,
my fate, my name –
how I’m fearfully,
wonderfully,
judgment by judgment,


made.

 

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