I A platypus used to be the lengthwise size of a boogie board
A serene image Riding the creek tangling my handlebars
of thick matted fur handlebars tangling in tidelets
mouthfuls of creekwater when the ride dives
big swallows that fractionalise the volume of the creek
in drought days at least and oh the fish I could
One two three Oh Woah what size of fish for I
a platypus now in contemp lite size Do you even lift size
we eats shrimp that we can’t even see Diet lite modern meals
we find with electrics pinging off their pinchy flexes
electrics serene imaging my snack when the ride dives
but then my eyes They aren’t so good Not blind but not-not
A platypus like I has no guts and no genetic trigger
for them anymore We can’t ever have a stomach because
in the past I decided Skip it Just give me intestines
and so no guts Just a tube Mouth to out
I didn’t decide-decide That is seriously Lamarck-y
don’t even get me started On giraffes
youse guys can’t stretch your neck for keeps
just because the leaves are up Get real Lamark
How would they have lived before You can’t
stretch your neck Just because the leaves
up are out of reach Did they just wait
for leaves to trickle down Trickle-down theoretically
No No No A platypus has one tube
and giraffes were born with a neck
a sky high prong to rest a head on
to the rest of us a middle finger flying by
If I could but see a giraffe which is unlikely
on so many levels Still I believe in them
they walk among us youse They ride this
plane among youse savannah plains As likely as I
I won’t say nah of them sceptics who I imagine
Yeah nah dropping monocles in crystal cups
when they saw me live at last shipped across and up
huge salty oceans to London probably Most like
it must have been a scream to see I
the platypus wriggling in the oldtimey shipping crate
all of a piece Sick from the sea and snorkelling
in the bad habitat of the old shipping shitbox
I a monocle-smasher crystal clearly living being
wriggling and snorkelling in a crate
not kept fully wet Might I add
I won’t say yeah nah nothing of them sceptics
their beards flowing over into the box
wet ropes of beards reaching over the sides
of the high walled ship crate to hark I to their spying
them eyes crawling over all that is mine My tangling matted
tide rider bod and electro nose and no-eyes-eyes
which is unlikely On so many levels As likely as I
beards creep over crate walls like vines that can’t be climbed
Hollen Singleton is a Melbourne writer of mostly fiction. Their work can be found at Going Down Swinging, Subbed In and other places. Their work has recently appeared in the Reading Victoria suburb project and was shortlisted for the Newcastle Short Story Award.
