The story (a poem)
The story must come out,
ripping like hurls of vomit /
of an infectious plague
that locks away
crazy.
It tears at a body
that coughs up in resistance /
green phlegm and acid /
with seized up hands
of sand.
The story must come out /
at the ‘You’re not going in
there, Mummy’ / and the
‘one more cuddle,
Mummy’ /
You’re a shitty mummy,
Mummy / where is your next child,
Mummy / you should clean,
Mummy / or work,
Mummy / stop chasing dreams,
Mummy.
You – are – a – fucking – lousy – mummy,
Mummy.
The story will come out /
against walls of fucking brick /
of ‘no children at
Rosebank – sorry
that’s for
dedicated writers
to finish their manuscripts’ /
and ‘your submission’s
unsuccessful
but please
celebrate our writers’.
The story will punch out /
at the ‘I won’t read your work
you didn’t read mine’ /
at the snubby
elite /
while I drag heaviness
through fields of mud.
Why am I doing this again?
Oh – right – the story’s got to come out.
It shrills out in the night
where wide eyeballs scribble notes /
and voices not mine
scream lost.
Varuna deadlines loom /
‘Why aren’t you coming to my birthday?’
Where’s my sister, Koraly?
My cousin, Koraly?
My wife, Koraly?
Is that Ella in Cyprus or me?
Is that Ella in love or me?
Is that Ella fighting with Harry or me?
Is that Ella slashing her wrists or me?
© Koraly Dimitriadis
First published on the Overland website 8/11/2009
