Luke Palmer Surreal-Absurd Sampler
“I like taking the opportunity to outsource some of the responsibilities of writing, and many of my surreal-absurd poems are pieced together from dream journals and other scraplets in a bedside notebook that, come the morning, I almost never remember writing in. There’s a freedom and a weightlessness that comes with working alongside another version of yourself, as if you can forget all those concerns around ‘personal voice’ that are content-related, and just focus on the music of it. Also, the feeling of being surprised is something I always enjoy when I find it in other poets’ work, and exploring these surreal-absurd methods is the closest I come to finding it in my own, which is always perversely satisfying, like I’m the unwitting victim of my own trick.”—Luke Palmer
Pitt | Sandwiches
Brad Pitt catches up with me while I’m buying sandwiches for his mother and myself | he shows me his exam results | his lank hair thinning | cheeks all hollowed out | I want everyone in the sandwich shop to see me hug him | Brad Pitt has done reasonably well | perhaps better than expected | though who am I to judge | he senses my pride | capitalises | asks to borrow the car | I know what he’s doing | but that boyish grin | I tell him I want him home for dinner | hair creeps over his shoulders like a greasy scarf | much later Brad Pitt has still not come home | we have abandoned the sandwiches | I stare at my hands sat on the rag rug and they are a child’s hands | so plump and shiny | I watch them for hours
Broderick | Storm
We’re holed up in Matthew Broderick’s old multiplex while the storm rages | all the features replaced by live images of the storm | there’s no difference between the screens and the windows except the windows are all shattered | the projectionists are redundant | they call their union and stare out of the apertures| faces grey with dust | in the corridors Matthew Broderick has laid tiles of soft polymer that undulate as you walk | the experience is not unpleasant | he’s laid the staircase tiles so that it feels like walking up them when you’re really walking down | it’s like falling through an Escher print | the one with all the staircases | obviously | we do this until the storm’s eye arrives | across the precinct a couple in their wall-less apartment try to retrieve all that they have lost using only their voices | it looks like an argument | we watch until the storm is back | it does the opposite of returning things to their rightful places | Matthew Broderick says I should put an ear to a pillar in the foyer | hear everything snap | each thing on its own then all again together at once
Goldblum | Lumberjack
Jeff Goldblum is a bad lumberjack | the shirt fits fine but his rope work’s wanting | I’ve witnessed his slack blocks | his pulleys idle | and the trunks come down in shavings mostly | he sweats at the sight of the chipper | is dwarfed by the really big saw | I get nervous just watching | he steps into his harness | strains the shoddy bowline | hands down another wood-skin sliver | I pray the knots will hold | he yawned this morning | the stretch almost cracked his shoulder | had him retching at the porcelain a full five minutes before the dizzy spell passed | how can he manage all that tension | he can’t always wait for the gale to ease | day in day out | the body will yank itself apart if you let it
Smith | Coupling
Will Smith has a pet flood | it lives in the yard | a throat of rising water | it hums when it’s stroked | it waits for us to come home | it has no truck with strangers | Will Smith steps into it | sloughs clothes | has rings ripped tenderly from his fingers | he empties it below the cliffs | a spill of accoutrements picked clean by gulls | Will Smith says it is good to have a pet flood | it will eat whatever you feed it | in many ways it is predictable | but it’s not the kind of pet to hold to your chest | or turn your back on.
Forsyth | Remuneration
Bruce Forsyth is Facilities Manager at the unit where we are employed | I am a kind of waiter | Bruce Forsyth wants to greater harness the profit margins afforded by the generous square footage here | the rooms downstairs are let to the elderly | in protest at declining standards the elderly scrawl their demands in Sharpie pens along their plexi-glass walls | I draw the curtains and ask you other ways to earn money | you mentioned last week a scheme that outsources written assessment on a pay-per-script basis | We spoke of this | I offer for context | your advice seems rational | though something may stop me from following it to the letter
Depp | Lido
Johnny Depp runs the lido | its sporadic tidal pool perhaps follows some other moon | guests do as they’re told | sit where the tables lie | it changes daily | it’s a popular wedding venue | Depp wears a morning suit | he once ate salmon en croute standing at the maître d’s station | he once took a young couple away for the weekend | he once waded out to the storm grate and removed an obstruction the size of his torso | his dogs stalk the sea defences | Depp throws lumber into the misty distance for them to chase | the dogs return with wet stomachs | splinters in their mouths
Hogan | River
Paul Hogan tracks water underground | loves nothing more than its tongue’s slip through rock | he seeks the ultimate passage | buys a hundred yard stretch in the Pyrenees | a well targeted ad campaign | patrons pay handsomely to throw themselves down the swallow hole | the liquid dark chatters | they’re borne through limestone | cold under their palms | stuck in the throat | the slick press of water builds | when the surge is released | depending on the size of the rider | they’re launched up to 40ft in the air | birthed into sunlight | Hogan hordes the cash | enough to buy a prefab house of Scandinavian design | plants it on the watershed and stands at the windows in the offseason | watches the rain fall | his great plethora of birds coming home to roost
Luke Palmer’s second pamphlet of poetry is In all my books my father dies (The Red Ceilings Press, 2021). His first, Spring in the Hospital, won the 2018 Prole Pamphlet Contest. He also writes fiction for young adults and was longlisted for the 2022 Carnegie Medal and the Branford Boase Award. Find out more at www.lukepalmerwriting.com
‘Broderick | Storm’ was published previously in Babel Tower Notice Board. ‘Goldblum | Lumberjack’, ‘Depp | Lido’ & ‘Hogan | River’ appeared in Anthropocene.
