Two (Longer)
Poems
—
Brighton Grace
Viewfinder
Just before
I was
Going to
Persuade myself to switch
Off in order to succeed in sleeping,
It found my eyes
: A tumescent head
-Line around
The most popular
—And, thus, important—
Package of angles we label an “event”
—Because only one story can be
The most important;
These theses/faeces
From our schoolyard of Athens—
That day—the 4th, or the 5th
Down Under—. “The 6 Moments You Missed
At the Met”. Here I was
Assuming I’d seen everything
—I’d counted 1215 moments that had
Blitzkrieged/slithered across my pupils—,
And, yet, I somehow missed
Said 6 Moments. So remiss, so unsightly
Of me. I couldn’t live
Without them:
These exclusive views
Of Celebrity Guest #511—who just played
A revolutionary in that anti-establishment, blockbuster, broad broadside—
Failing to see me
As they silently converse with
Celebrity Guest #408; or two other smiling beyond-perfect-and-beyond-wealthy people
Whom I’ll never meet
—Since, obviously, no working-class/unknown individuals can be invited/sponsored
To attend,
And there can only be one (or, at most, two)
Disabled individuals for the press to ogle and press
(In 2026, the first wheelchair user
To manifest at The Gala
Is justifiably praised by journalists, though none seem to uncomfortably ask
Why hasn’t this element long been the norm for a liberal, leading cultural event?)—;
Or a pride of macroplastic dolls
Looking at something—perhaps an artwork—
Out of frame—like the purpose
Of this fundraiser—;
Or my favourite, iconic star who seems to be literally talking to themselves
—i.e., with someone who is becoming their clone
Aesthetically + linguistically—
, The latest passive activists rebranding progressivism with “awoken” brands,
Who comfortably neglected
To boycott the party
At the Freedom Museum
After
The windfall
Of Augusto Pinochet’s
Suffocatingly
Weighty donation
—In the global currency of blood money—
From the afterlife,
And this spectre—more present than most people—was made
“Honorary” Co-Chair for the years surrounding that one night.
But you must prohibit panic; bouquets of liberty bellflowers are in abundance:
This is a place where a person has the choice to
Go starving.
And there is metaphor, and even poetry—intended or accidental—;
Multiplying articles
—Some overtly ghost written
By the preeminent C. G. P. T.—
Speak of a “red carpet” that doesn’t exist, or which has perhaps been fashioned
Into our corpus’ congested arteries or glossitis tongue.
But, this is still ignoring
The question of whether any of these “moments” are // truly moments...
Why is that we—or, our unconscious minds—automatically inhale
Such smoky definitions, become complicit in digital gaslight
—Being fixated, dotingly or scornfully, on
Events with the structural integrity of shortbread—? Why do we remain hooked
By the long-pandemic trend to downplay/omit
The most essential moments? What about engaging in the democratised catwalks of public
Transport, on the subways?
Or the eternal canvases of sidewalks and walls
—Outside the bedazzled barriers—
On Fifth Avenue waiting to be painted
By raindrops, or a burst hydrant, or the splashes of a garden
Hose ushering vomit
Into the gutter?
Or, the addicts, the schizophrenics, the homeless, and a few protestors jammed
Into robot street sweepers for the uninterrupted pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Bezos
, Who—if they had not splurged on cosmetic butchery—,
Would bust into laughs with the same ease as they bust unions,
More newlyweds extracting, exhausting the honey from the moon?
In times when conquest continues to be quotidian, we are staring at one simple victory,
Yet, chronically, we vacate the centres of our spheres, inherit stale choux pastry,
And, despite the internet, forgetting/tightness are promoted/incentivised, and
We have forgotten what “everything” looks like, that we can see it all, and the fact that
The simplest, quietest act can be quite revolutionary—the mere movement of an eye...
Choosing to look around or look away... at something else, somewhere else—.
I was
Going to
Persuade myself to switch
Off in order to succeed in sleeping,
It found my eyes
: A tumescent head
-Line around
The most popular
—And, thus, important—
Package of angles we label an “event”
—Because only one story can be
The most important;
These theses/faeces
From our schoolyard of Athens—
That day—the 4th, or the 5th
Down Under—. “The 6 Moments You Missed
At the Met”. Here I was
Assuming I’d seen everything
—I’d counted 1215 moments that had
Blitzkrieged/slithered across my pupils—,
And, yet, I somehow missed
Said 6 Moments. So remiss, so unsightly
Of me. I couldn’t live
Without them:
These exclusive views
Of Celebrity Guest #511—who just played
A revolutionary in that anti-establishment, blockbuster, broad broadside—
Failing to see me
As they silently converse with
Celebrity Guest #408; or two other smiling beyond-perfect-and-beyond-wealthy people
Whom I’ll never meet
—Since, obviously, no working-class/unknown individuals can be invited/sponsored
To attend,
And there can only be one (or, at most, two)
Disabled individuals for the press to ogle and press
(In 2026, the first wheelchair user
To manifest at The Gala
Is justifiably praised by journalists, though none seem to uncomfortably ask
Why hasn’t this element long been the norm for a liberal, leading cultural event?)—;
Or a pride of macroplastic dolls
Looking at something—perhaps an artwork—
Out of frame—like the purpose
Of this fundraiser—;
Or my favourite, iconic star who seems to be literally talking to themselves
—i.e., with someone who is becoming their clone
Aesthetically + linguistically—
, The latest passive activists rebranding progressivism with “awoken” brands,
Who comfortably neglected
To boycott the party
At the Freedom Museum
After
The windfall
Of Augusto Pinochet’s
Suffocatingly
Weighty donation
—In the global currency of blood money—
From the afterlife,
And this spectre—more present than most people—was made
“Honorary” Co-Chair for the years surrounding that one night.
But you must prohibit panic; bouquets of liberty bellflowers are in abundance:
This is a place where a person has the choice to
Go starving.
And there is metaphor, and even poetry—intended or accidental—;
Multiplying articles
—Some overtly ghost written
By the preeminent C. G. P. T.—
Speak of a “red carpet” that doesn’t exist, or which has perhaps been fashioned
Into our corpus’ congested arteries or glossitis tongue.
But, this is still ignoring
The question of whether any of these “moments” are // truly moments...
Why is that we—or, our unconscious minds—automatically inhale
Such smoky definitions, become complicit in digital gaslight
—Being fixated, dotingly or scornfully, on
Events with the structural integrity of shortbread—? Why do we remain hooked
By the long-pandemic trend to downplay/omit
The most essential moments? What about engaging in the democratised catwalks of public
Transport, on the subways?
Or the eternal canvases of sidewalks and walls
—Outside the bedazzled barriers—
On Fifth Avenue waiting to be painted
By raindrops, or a burst hydrant, or the splashes of a garden
Hose ushering vomit
Into the gutter?
Or, the addicts, the schizophrenics, the homeless, and a few protestors jammed
Into robot street sweepers for the uninterrupted pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Bezos
, Who—if they had not splurged on cosmetic butchery—,
Would bust into laughs with the same ease as they bust unions,
More newlyweds extracting, exhausting the honey from the moon?
In times when conquest continues to be quotidian, we are staring at one simple victory,
Yet, chronically, we vacate the centres of our spheres, inherit stale choux pastry,
And, despite the internet, forgetting/tightness are promoted/incentivised, and
We have forgotten what “everything” looks like, that we can see it all, and the fact that
The simplest, quietest act can be quite revolutionary—the mere movement of an eye...
Choosing to look around or look away... at something else, somewhere else—.
❊
Steven Lewis, Independent
Tied to a utility
Pole, lime leached by laissez-faire sunlight,
The corflute doesn’t tell me anything
Else—other
Than the fact Lewis is a person
Of middle age with a form of alopecia,
Needs glasses, presumably, and lives
In some sort of white void,
The same white void/padded cell most politicians apparently inhabit
(Based off their promotional images),
Either that or a blurred locale of muted, inoffensive colours—.
Oh, and in the fine print,
This poster credits a Ben Lewis with the authorisation.
So, Steven could be no more than a nepo baby or puppet candidate, for all I know.
And as I attempt to stroll, to soak in the salve of sky, cloud, and flora, I keep seeing Lewis
Impaled on chapped utility pole after chapped utility pole, like a hetero Warhol work
Spread across the fanciful geography of an electorate.
There are oh-so many posters for other airbrushed candidates,
But they’re all blemished by the implicit ideologies of established parties branding them.
Steven Lewis is neither encumbered by slogans nor policy
—Which, as children now learn, are nothing more than tiring, unsightly superfluities—.
You might think that Steven Lewis or the Steven Lewis team would opt for something more
Than just “Steven LEWIS, INDEPENDENT”
—You know, since he’s an independent and no one knows who the fuck he is—,
But, no, you would have thought wrong, dear voter, just like you always think wrong.
The rival candidates lack the poetic brevity, the radical transparency, the 8K vision
Of Steven Lewis, Independent, who should be held up alongside the most
Historic, celebrated busts;
You see,
Today,
Yet another day
When one’s joints are already arthritic; young flesh is tanned leather;
Leaders of “the right”—which is a terrible misnomer, seeing
As the sole thing for which we can rely on them is to be wrong—
Openly scheme to mutate your nation—one of many
Unfinished democracies—
Into the bifurcated theocracy of America, trafficking inside
New misinformation and contradictions,
Marching so far right that it exonerates centrists—the complacent, craven,
or sell-out leftists—,
Permitting them to cosplay as adequate, left-wing—even progressive or
radical—heroes;
Another question mark is added
To the countless question marks
At the end of the timeless refrain, “I Still Call Australia Home???????????????????????”;
Reality long ago assassinated satire;
Moths are chewing through every flag;
The invisible rot and the phantom dementia
Of narcissism and attention-amputating media have infected
The new architects of dreams—youth and so many of the few
Progressives in positions of substantial influence—;
It is still legal for the hollow and wicked to possess
Hundreds of millions and billions, to stockpile sleep and bliss and oxygenated hours;
Corporations in the doomsday cartel—fossil-fuels, insurance, betting, E.T.C.—enclose
Parliaments state and national; change,
Change is feasible—mustn’t ever think not—,
Closer than we think, closer than I think,
But it’s so, so, so exhausting and turbulent,
Romanticised as much as 26/7 grind culture and blood-ritual innovations,
Beautiful only from behind
The ballistic-glass screen of one of our daily devices,
With major-key, “epic” music doused over the footage,
Like how an observer unaware of the terror in the distance
Could be attracted to a novel cloud dragged up by a hypersonic missile or drone strike;
And parties/wealthy donors repeatedly drop
Tens of millions or hundreds of millions on election campaigns
Promising to fix issues instead of simply spending that money on said issues—like
Buying a house for a family, paying for rent/surgery/university, or gifting groceries—;
Baby and sky // blue with hypothermia;
And you realise our game is really one long cut
-Scene—paradise behind a paywall, reality pay-to-win,
Utopias were a limited-run, high-cost DLC—,
And the alternative is kissing oblivion to silence the shrieks
—Inhaling carbon, relining the lungs with coal shadows—,
I desire to embrace the waiting
Surface—so soft, so simple, so succinct and soothing,
Soothing as white flags
Flown by
Catamarans caressing the coastlines, the ceramic blue, green, and white of imported
Miamis—,
I fancy voting 1 Steven Lewis, Independent,
The Idle of our endangered time.
Brighton Grace is a 24-year-old queer writer from Sydney, Australia, currently based on Gadigal land. Seeking to preserve audience autonomy, his writings offer refractions of contemporary concerns and excavations of hidden feelings. He has been or will be featured in publications including the Cordite Poetry Review, Soft Union, Maudlin House, Westerly, Dodo Eraser, and Scissors & Spackle.
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