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Parade of the Singulars

Plato sold tickets to the cave,
while Elvis tuned his sequins

to beat-off shadows.

Helen waved from the balcony,
unsure if it was Troy or tabloids

burning below.

Attila rode in, not on horse

but on talk‑show couch,

Oprah nodding as he confessed
the secret to pillage was

“location, location, location.”

Sappho passed notes to Colette
under the bored gaze of Aristotle,
who wondered if metre or

metre‑high heels
truly swayed the polis.

Jesus scribbled in the dust,
Liberace leaned over his shoulder—
“Try rhinestones.”

And somewhere in the stands,
Achilles and Twiggy compared
the shine on their perfectly useless armour,
while Nero fiddled back‑up for Sting.

By dusk,
Alexander was selling maps to kingdoms
that now fit in a snow globe,

and Socrates sipped wine with Björk,
debating whether questions or choruses
make better lovers.

The crowd roared. The world spun.
And the Muse — if they were here —
would grin: Every empire ends,
                  but the after‑party goes on.

South of the Equator

Wattle light breaks on the brim of his lines,
gold pollen drifts through syllables like slow rain.
Lorikeets heckle the dawn, and he listens,
pen tipped toward the edge of the continent.

In his stanzas, drought has a patient voice,
and flood remembers the laughter it took;
the Southern Cross tilts above kitchen sinks,
over rainwater tanks and

the red‑earthed ache of distance.

He speaks in more than one tongue at once—
colonial clocks, ancestral winds,
digital solitude tymballing cicadas
in the heat between two gum shadows.

Each poem is a map the north never drew,
where grief leans against corrugated walls,
love tastes of river‑mint and dust,
and history carries a sunburn no winter can cure.

Here, at the Antipodes, his ink runs inland and outward,
a tide that answers only to the moon it knows—
southern, salt‑white,
pulling every word toward home.

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