Last Night

by Martha Landman

it was 1952 and a man with bleak brown hair
walked in my shoes. His raincoat grabbed
my attention, inspired in me a wild passion.
Feet covered in mud we orbited into a place
littered with broken calendars. I slipped
into finely grounded rock dust and smelled
fear — our dialogue was like gunfire, we took
turns to sleep in the rapeseed field across
from a pedestrian bridge; somewhere
a door slammed. By morning the breeze
wafted pollen into my eyes. We soldiered
on through sun, storms and sand until
we stumbled upon a toothless woman feeding
tuna to the wild dolphins, flies lazed around
fermented food on the rocks. Her words,
covered by a lopsided grin, stung like pepper.

Sweet Residue

by Martha Landman

Deep into the darkness,
Malayan gods sat saturated at
the seams of a conversation,
passion forbidden and hushed
into dangerous proportions,
their hearts titillated by
the platonic equivalent
of fire in a cocoa pod,
                                     when

rising enigmatically, like a symbol
of sweetness wrapped in gold, utter
pleasure quickening her heartbeat,
a goddess from Ghana exploded
inexplicably —
a paroxysm of bittersweet
obsession
descended
into green
                 & black

Later she huddled together with those in rehab
they bathed in the milk of camels and sheep
their chocophile badges soaked in lemon grass
their neural pathways rebooted and programmed:
                                                                   Cherrie Ripe
moments delirious with desire

They flaked divine prayers like a 12-step rosary
and bowed deeply to the master —  Forrero Rocher —
as they chanted:
                        Toblerone Tiramisu
                        Give us your bounty on Mars
                        Rolo in aero crunchie your
                        Galaxy, a twister of KitKats
                        Give us our Ghirardelli, our Lindt
                        On a baker’s tray

And all they received for lunch, filled with
lettuce and spinach, was a Klondike sandwich

The Mayan gods laughed with pleasure
and rolled like maltesers on the ground.

From My Notebook

by Martha Landman

A year ago I dreamt a girl in a red bikini,
Of no fixed abode, took refuge out of

Wedlock. She dashed for me where I was
Nursing my depression at the back of the bar

I understood wild life, I spent years in animal
Conservation camps; here I had no user guide

I took her hand across the table and swallowed
Our encounter was brief; at ten o’clock she was dead

The idiots around us, in a stir of humanity,
Backed away from the blood patterns on the floor

The moment, eerie and odourless, spread like a chain
Letter: the cop’s writing was curved, single-spaced

His young passion hell-bent on a double episode
His steel caps shone eternally; the Keep Australia

Beautiful-guide in his pocket seemed irrelevant
Her beauty dwindled, compromised her reputation

Adrenaline pumped wild with possibility, my breath
Collapsed at the indiscreet shake of my shoulder —

The whole in the door doesn’t match, I heard
My wife’s voice in rich aroma: “Coffee Dear!”

Like my Father

by Martha Landman

I wanted to be drunk and now
I’m jumbled by the cashew nuts
You can’t right the wrong
and have a good time too
your head pounding
cross-eyed

Better go slow down the steps,
stay upright like my father did
every time he performed
a miracle beyond human elegance
enchanted by blue silk;
he was a real cruncher,
a kick ass

dead at the age of forty:  A
deceased person undertaking to
move along the breeze and gasp
against the death tag, music
cartwheeling in his ears.

Mother says I’m the only
one around missing him,
says his influence
made me take a nicotine-
fingered shit like you.

But she’s full of shit too -
cradling herself to sleep
in his rocking chair,
photo album in her lap.

Fourty or forty

by Martha Landman

 The only way out of this hole is to go deeper into it.
 -- Julie Beveridge

No matter if you are fourty or forty
I will love you forever and four less
Don’t ask me why I procrastinate for
four times ten I read your promise

I cling to the bannister and drink porty
wine on the bathroom floor unable
to distract myself for forty four days
and almost forget that you love me

fortyfold — not randomly.  And you
want to spend the rest of your life on
one fourth of a quarter section of land
to plant and manure a handful of beans

From four to fourteen to forty I wish you
more than just a physical body to replicate
angelic beings important in themselves
The seed and the tree grow in four decades

We must remember yesterday the fourth
day of the fourth month of the forth year
without deviation (you get the drift). What
if I don’t get worthy images in photoshop?

Will you still love me when I’m size forty
on your fortieth or will I be the paralysed
number forty chapter forty verse forty in
the Quran between thirty nine and forty one

So whether you are fourty or forty the dogs
will fly on either side of the Atlantic under
a false name in sporty Anglo-Saxon colours
Heroing forth in fourty four poignant hours.

Dry Conditions

by Martha Landman

Drought reigned high when Mr Cohen
swayed into the saloon
eight minutes before closing time
crooked nose
chiseled face
laughter lines rising from the back

the counter already wiped
corkscrews out of sight
sweatshirt stained underneath his jacket,
the barkeep had his hands full
without his Marianne
who was drying out in a Buddhist camp.

Barmaids on night-tired
creamy legs in skinny tops
filed out to home duties.

The head barmaid
keen to take Mr Cohen home,
directions scribbled on her right thigh,
signaled her patrons with
perfectly rounded lips
it’s closing time

and Mr Cohen chuckled at the
old men hanging off young girls,
declared their half empty glasses
a romantic façade
his Ouzo eyes sculpting
the Peruvian girl who wailed
her singleness in a mysterious lilt
in the smokers’ corner,

sealing his charisma
with a lipstick tattoo
from shoulder to shoulder
as the drunken mob toasted

love-promises frazzled
out onto the empty street.

A Perfect Mess

by Martha Landman

It was never meant as
a five dollar combo deal
when we met unexpectedly
in the subway

the smell of piss
at seven twenty six pm a macabre
chlorine dance on our nostrils
your mouth dry and silent

It’s better not to know the
thoughts criss-crossing your mind like
wild dogs, even though the dude next to
you stared as if he read them like a book
of local lingo stuffed in a dream container

I remembered that time at the library:
You were keenly swallowing a sandwich
behind the large print section
when my slobber kiss landed on
the arm of the man in work clothes next
to you just as you stepped away
at the wrong time

Later, you didn’t cry
in the subway: vibrant commotion
all night and day, a plethora of
ankles and hips,
when I told you I didn’t
mean for her to carry my child

It just happened I said
I was waiting for the moment
your raised hand would meet my cheek
but you snorted and mentioned the
strawberry farm where my breath
panted against your chest
as your father’s two shots
rang true

On the platform
behind us a muralist killed
the perfect swell.

Mostly Cloudy

bu Martha Landman

Once I was stuck in a Land Rover
horseflies buzzing around the
buffaloes approaching me on
the African savannah I noticed
somehow there were no clouds
the old radio crackled and the
weather reporter reckoned that it
was mostly cloudy elsewhere
my grave concern was to get the
battered engine going my breathing
fast tracked my heart through my
ears and for a second I wondered
if I could cancel this when the wind
changed direction and the buffaloes too.