In the night, I hear a far-off beat. Closer, louder, my scalp prickles. The incessant pounding crushing my skull, a mountain of bone. Your dress is a relief of green leaves in a forest. The music changes cycle and you are suddenly sad. But I am light, volatile, excited. Your clothes Italian, your voice becoming cotton. I am as curious as a cat on a plane, exploring dark spaces as passengers sleep or sink into screen stupor. I am falling through a secret trapdoor to Hell. There is a strange, sweet smell and dye is running. But I laugh, for I have cut the ribbon.
While the norm is to damn, take the lean with the crude, yet the force of your kick leaves the spring still afloat in your breast as you walk, though you lose on the floor.
At your desk wear a mask, steal a mile while you feed, in the ditch hear a boom as the real takes a toll. At the tail – press your will, near the edge, seek to squash.
Show the flex of a duke on the course that you graze, hide the bleed as you dip, dig the pile looking sharp, still as well at the end as you need, you must shine on the shelf, on the rack for your goal is to lie.
Rohan Buettel was born and educated in Brisbane, Australia and now lives in Canberra. His haiku have been published in various Australian and international journals (including Frogpond, Cattails and The Heron’s Nest). His longer form poetry appears or is forthcoming in Reed Magazine, Meniscus, Cicerone Journal, Lite Lit One and Quadrant.