Poems: Toby Fitch: Ten Poems


  Toby Fitch: Ten Poems:

  ‘inversions’ of some poems by Arthur Rimbaud

— PDF: You can read the A5-sized PDF format of this article here.
— Provenance: Edited by John Tranter, 2014.


the second his left leg moves be
tween her thighs night zips

doubled sex heartbeat in
belly armed blonde

zither of a ribcage
jangle fangs gleam hollow

cheek & shoulders grown spherical
their precious berry sleep

crowned in wine & cork
screwed into flowering dawn

eyeballs wide to a grace
ful panning sun

  Beaut Just Being

ashen face from cookies & cream
hurled over a cannon such a
melée on Sydney Harbour helps
to keep me regular

my guns crystal clean she lips me
three times our bones
rattling off covers like skins
rising & drooping amid the hiss

& thunderclaps her mum
look weirds me out but
only for a sec before the dark
bursting colours of our lives dance on

& off like a TV’s tongue magnetically
damaged meat our bodies
tremble open spewing forth
ghosts into circulation

deaf to the swelling muzak
Death’s got the sniffles it’s beaut
just being like snow what
or whoever we are


musical savant w/ a loss of desire
the poor ponce died in lace in the most ungenerous way
annihilated by the essence of parted cheeks
not a health problem as his genius would later attest
but how did she die unspeakable
joy granted by the promise of love apparently
witch came from her men tenants of
a multiple & complex sham(e)


no one appeared one evening which proudly flew
off to mediate their pro blames for others to murmur about
& administer their destruction for the way IT
rejuvenated her animal effigies to him:
inflated codpieces burst by hecklers in the golden ether
he followed all those that Mordered him as if it was
a game of online libation to flower upon
women’s backs he bid on new items blessed

by his lightsaber

in that brutal woman’s beautiful garden he’d pillaged
at least once claiming to be the larger human
weather or not it was a kind of piety
those who sought to see the truth decorated
suspected that his complicit foreskin was a luxury yanked back
to satisfy himself that genderosity was too vulgar re
volted by the love in his imagination
the ponce was upset not to heave always

hard perfection


Without paranoia, there’s nothing. My know
ledge of homeland trivia is nothing if not chaotic,
historically inaccurate, helps white
hole literatures. In my dreams of scarlet
pigeons whirling, I sit above my t
errors. Fight or flight? Assault and pepper brain is in
continent. For my next holiday, I plan to be
exiled, standing on my lovers’ shoulders.

So much sunshine and money on the roof
tops! pent-up in my capital
city penthouse. I remember hours blasting
proverbs at barmen, thinking they were brahmin,
then being eclipsed on ground zero. Hey, it’s nothing!
The terraced holey land is up here, streaming.


I hope to become a well adjusted crazy
now that doubt can be applied—
I’m even more committed to a knew disorder.
Joyrides through the hideous cool
air of skepticism allow
my divine hand to shift old memories
of knocking back sour champagne and marriage
proposals. I don’t regret my fever

pitch for polemical sex with widows.
Twas a heady childhood apprenticeship, dissed
under a sober sky of rock
stars who thought they’d found the keys…
To the lovemobile! Because I’m the original
inventor of desertion.


No more commissions, please. I is an udder
and beyond the grave, having waived
my blood, my duty to procreate.
What should also be taken in
to consideration is that I’m spent
on beautiful Orientals. I have no super,
no oeuvre to get me back to Paris. I went all in
on the classical science of painting

(or was it petting) my old friends’ wives
so I could sleep with them in the dark above
the city, playing out my carnivorous
inversions of human comedy. Confined to this
world, I should shut myself up
in de basement for the next twelve eras.


you always leave me
arriving wherever’s or else

the future kids
is awash & singing in ultra

sound of a plague on
both our lots

w/ no substance my head
clots at the idea of

new love & Christmas
turns into the season we detain

each other’s other
up our selves in arms & one

step away from drifting out or in
to the cliffs of the no

-man’s-land you drum on about
how shot my hand is re

leasing us from disharmony


now see/hear girls i may be
  a low-light chandelier
    but i still like to be thrown toward darkness
      on the bed & powdered
        w/ vigilante rain

        the taste of ink & pink fire
      cloud my ability to be a bright spark w/ bells on
    public money flows into the frat party
  where white people pool
in a witch hunt

smoking till sunrise
  i dance out from the window smashed
    star upon star extend into space
      ropes of sunshine & why not
        everyone’s steeped yet no one seems to care

        it’s drizzling toys & the Flower Channel’s on
      a rampage rutting
    sweat in my stove-pipes
  ash thru the air i’ve spent & i am
on this covert July moaning


i used to watch graphic & ex
pensively made pictures w/ a hardened
arm behind my back
from the back row of a country compromised
another orphaned summer spent
far from me i thought a tremendous amount
of force & fate had psycho
analysts despairing
at how an unfortunate childhood event kept reminding
our house thru the shutters
was split in two
shade & light dream
& gleam of the Great Southern Land
as the city gloom followed us
into a noisy office in the Feral Court my wife wouldn’t
stop pointing at me my
eyes like tiny fish in a puddle of
last month’s flood excited the odours of the garden
our devastated lawn when we talked
the weather’s been windy
cloudy we toured the periphery
it was a sad game old
hat w/ ribbon & silk hanky last century
had to be taken in
Henrika’s brown & white tiled skirt
went south with absurd ease we were suitably
inappropriate on that hot
February morning in memory of
our mazing youth


i am a permanent & frustrated
civilian of the global village
thought to be post-everything because
every known taste is voided across the furnishings
interior becomes exterior my house like
an unplanned city from above
one would point to this monumentally
obvious & superstitious morality w/ the expressive
language of a simpleton indeed

these millions of people online who seem to feel
the need to know each other’s avatar
experience weird hellucidations
occupied from a young age by algorithms which determine
the shortening attention- & elongating life
-spans we each might have before incontinence
just as when i open new windows & see
the same old spectres flickering
but seemingly w/out those thick fuming coal fires

who brought these shadows forth
from the woods this high summer night
modern-day Furies surround my
cottage my country my heart yet nothing re
assembles itself like the death-drive my daughter has
for despairing love not even
the servile tears i commit myself for
petty crime whimpering in the deep shit
fields of the superhighway


Seldom does the Commish not get bent
On immense opulence,
Tripping the crowd in doubt to become sold out
Scaredy cats who delight
In unsense and vice, especially when they are
The ones not being turned in
For perp-etuating the mad and infinite momentum out
Wards of the free-range market:
SOLD! — incredible apps for computing
Adoption and eHarmony, unheard-of possession:

Occupy the sky! SOLD! — all homes,
Futures and migrations,
Accompanied by comforting poetry, perfectly pitched:
As alliterative national sport.
SOLD! — faithful love and irrepressible satisfaction, ex
Cruciating death, amateurisation:
Pseudo-anarchy for the masses! Obese
Diamonds are out of control, corpses gush about the priceless
Corporate values of progeny, sex and race,
Having disengaged a sense or two.

What a eunuch opportunity to infantalise eternity
And spruik vocals with auto-tune.
Apply online and the orchestra will have you
Weakened away       on a coral island! SOLD! — what cannot be
Sold! There is neither time nor science to recog
Nice—the people, ignorant
Of gravity have listed
Soul doubt, criminal, and no(a)bility
On their CVs, cursed love as their favourite juice.
Who hasn’t been duped?

  Sir Risqué Histamine

His magic will continue to have an inflammatory effect
on the gnomes and the Bible belts
that secure the Minotaur—especially after
the angry earth’s had its way
via the ocean. Our time in the oven. Already
found suffering topical climes, and much preferring in
dividual airs, we revert and convert into fog
the basic physics of opinion—
it’s the same bourgeois hood that winks
to where “someone else” buried the trunk of bodies
’neath our otherwise boring little world
flats. Even so, Risqué’s curveball
melodies can still be heard sneezing
from the heathens above, echoing down
through his kingdom of queens, his urban windows
            wide to the moonlit
wormwoods of Africa, the Occident, certain
odd bods Down Under, and to anyone
accidentally awake in their dreams.
A vulnerable kind of uprising, we hordes
shudder in embarrassment at our funny bones which de
Volvo into a dance of witch hats. Red-nosed,
Sir Histamine’s screen memes can lead us naive day trippers
away from the United States’ eco
gnomic horrors. Tonight, for example, we play exquisite
corpse at the bottom of a billabong,
harpsichord burbling along as we gaze back up
to the heathens, our reflections in lurid chroma, wet
and sweet and knowing full well
how our legendary games will live on in dis
harmony with the West.

Photo of Toby Fitch supplied by the author.
Photo of Toby Fitch supplied by the author.

Toby Fitch is the author of Rawshock (Puncher & Wattmann), which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry 2012, plus two chapbooks, Quarrels (Stale Objects dePress 2013) and Everyday Static (Vagabond Press 2010). He has two new collections of poetry on the way: Jerilderies with Vagabond Press in late 2014; and, a book of ‘inversions’. He lives in Sydney, Australia.

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