Corey Wakeling

60th Floor

“Dare for once to believe yourselves – yourselves and your entrails!
Whoever cannot believe himself always lies.”

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Septicaemia of bleach, bleach of supposition,
Dragon pontificating, playing with one paw on the sea creature,
a mud pile – he is mud and to be played with – a phallus with a light

from which the overman extracts pollen. Tassles don't make a cape,
the cake a last resort, mud chocolate, we wallow in past tenses. Feline
wisdom draws bleak birches of the underwater, which is a long way down.

And parsing the spine finds meat. Always the guts go away. And then,
like a shower of toads, or Tom-Cruise-Realism, Dragon marinates the sea
creature in gut-fluid, or petroleum. Sashimi feasts dabble with death

from which there is no easy gill. Sometimes I have to help Dragon with
a knife, running it along what feels like a jaw, but is also a cranium. Mostly
ripping though; this is the deft hand of the Arranger, who can discover deserts.

The guts of a sea creature are the same as its head. Except more efflorescent.
Arranged, the entrails are burgeoning glass, then crystal, then natural gas and then
petroleum. They simply don't know fire. Dragon, with it at disposal, can recycle
every supposition into warm water, which is bleach diluted, which is a tender
throat that swallows all of this. I believe this ocean-home. There is no more
perilous a going-under. We make burrows of bowels and he is eating lamb again.

Flushing the wound, the joint, the lesion, the bare bone, the spine,
the bowel, the naked beach, the contusion, the cavity, the bleach, the empty
pot, the rubber washer, the lost memo, the shedded skin. Besides, I met the 60th
storey-teller from Eureka and he's a radiologist. He's got an x-ray of our man leaping.

Corey Wakeling is a writer of poetry and prose from Melbourne, Australia.
His work has been published in Otoliths, Etchings, Peril, Yomimono, and
The Age. His current projects include a PhD thesis on Samuel Beckett and a
soap-opera in verse called The Drifting.


  1. It was taaasty, horhorhor. Loved the last stanza in particular. Hm, soap opera in verse, you say? I'm intrigued...

  2. Thank you for tasting my poem. The soap opera in verse covers some of Victoria, and is a mobile soap opera, in that most soap operas take place in the same locations. This involves a growing cast, but chasing one another, or stumbling upon one another. Thanks again.