Les Wicks

photo by Susan Adams (used with permission)
photo by Susan Adams (used with permission)

Les has performed and conducts workshops across Australia (and, he notes, he "is still smiling often"). He runs Meuse Press which focuses on outreach projects like poetry on buses and poetry published on the surface of a river, latest publication being “From this Broken Hill”.


Les's eighth book of poetry, Ambrosiacs, was published by Island Press in 2009. One of the poems from this collection, god2m, is shown below.


More of his work can be found on his website.


favours green cloth on some worlds,

wears a ring of molten copper.

Life is thread and we worship for this.


No easy hand this Ascendant Intent -

the erosion of constant birth

scarring sucker punch, self harm,

as meteorites score or scar the psalms of gravity.


Its laughter is spherical. A clay stew of canned life,

the lyric of freeways - endearment of silt.

Dressed suburbs have trod this unloved coil.

No contention of white

as gravel swallows sense from nuclear heat.


Maybe lifelessness, those world-rocks

where chemicals wander confused by dark,

begging at void. Or the moons

somnolent mirrors

with nothing to breathe… puppetry of the self.


Can you paint a beard on this?

God of joinery and dread, Toot the Hod,

works in spasms. Pray to your bed.


Do the robot, slippery discothèque

“large-boned”, big-bum-bouncing in space,

light-year boogie.


The bludger god

intermittently pretends it’s water as it turns, but

fails in grace.

A smoker, it aspires at times to illuminate

as gunpowder gumtrees adopt the fire

or vomit burns a phlegmy magma-gold to

no effect as ash negates all gleam.


Below the cancer of air toxic-blue,

the master is a suspicious brown sod, gravy days

carrion cradle, pancake.

Each planet is trash in its way.

Your nature is set

and movement fails the change.


Fast food, inured to season,

more than a ravenous mind

but less than husk.


The Melanglo Killer, the Iraq Killer, the Holy Tease -             tangential flecks

pretend we go as we please

across spine, down the groin

of parental soil. Stay positive, broken. Yes, pray

because of this.


You are the stuff of worlds

in turn the universe

by the living eyes

strapped down by the weight of twist.

Loving in its way,

warm in repose,

We are you

said the tapeworm.


From: the Ambrosiacs (Island, 2009)

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Australia License.