rob walker has three published poetry collections: sparrow in an airport (Friendly Street New Poets Ten), micromacro and phobiaphobia (and is currently looking for a publisher for his fourth.) He lives in the Adelaide Hills, South Australia, dividing his time between writing and teaching. He is also a member of the unique jazz/funk/impro poets collective which is Max-Mo..
Tropeland. Surreal estate.
In the Land of Trope
boxes of matches spontane combustiously,
self-ignite like passion.
Vampire bats appear as garbags snagged on barbed-wire fences
Butterflies float skyward like liberation
In the Land of Trope street lights go through the phases of the moon
while the real moon waits for the traffic lights to change.
Deep serene ponds resemble your eyes and babies’ cheeks are gardenias
In the Land of Trope ears roar like the ocean
when you hold them up to your shell.
Cellos are the waists and childbearing hips of
Cotton wool confined
to bathroom cabinets knows it’s a cloud
forming over the ranges.
The day sky tries to be as blue as the child’s pencil
while the night
leaves itself deliberately empty
for the distant sound of a lone
In the Land of Trope sweat from armpits impersonates
cinnamon bark and vanilla pods
Similes assimilate later as comparative as a comparison
In the Land of Trope dark sky splits white lightning apart
and all poetry is black except for
the pink bits
Silver coins are rain-filled sheep hoofprints.
Clocks at 2 a.m tut-tut that you’re not asleep.
Mountain scenes are almost as realistic as paintings.
Every autumn leaves fall
Drums beat like a
In the Land of Trope dogs feel as sick as a man
wheels are as silly as eccentric children
and tacks never feel flat.
In the Land of Trope rainbows come blank
so you can colour them in yourself
from ultra-yellow to infra-green
In the Land of Trope pins are as neat as houses,
rabbits breed like the poor. A whip
is as smart as a sadomasochist
In the Land of Trope
money is mute and
It’s better for you
And metaphor me
The dew dragged that giant slug from
the retaining wall again last night
Perhaps he was indecisive
on the up/ down question
Perhaps he has a one-second memory
and constructs his journeys randomly
Perhaps he was lost
Perhaps he just wanted to leave me
a silvered graph of yesterday’s
All Ordinaries Index
Poetry of the New Millenium
it’s all entropy
and things bleeding
into something else.
i’m tired of hearing
about your lover
and shards of things.
your journey holds
is just a mouth.