Three Poems

By Cam Scott





Two types of people occupy a cloud—

One off-punk, the other oversharing.

An enormous scaffold out of nowhere shears

The cloud in two, they drift apart.


That’s sort of what it’s like moving cities

In your smart blue jacket, making enemies

At breakfast over hash browns, onions, brash opinions.

Morning bubbles burst above the marsh.


Says stray with dog, jonesing responsibly,

I’m no one that you’ve ever met—

Doubt’s benefit confers a ghost of intrigue

To my shaky imaging. Touch wood.


It’s simple, as converting kilobytes

To bits or asking seltzer

Of a dead bartender at a quarter-after-three

PM, simple as saying so, as drifting


In a cumulus acquaintanceship, rift

After rift impending. There are other types

Of people, only two, however, so unlikely

Ever to have met across a eggless omelette


In the throes of disputation, in a city

Of their own roving design. You’ll find an omen

In the free bin, waterlogged. It’s raining

Clocks and glockenspiels, curtailing afternoon—







lapping a ticker tape parade

of light on leaves,

rutting in mud en route


an ace thwacking the spokes

or polyester usher lisping pickup

in a cartoon park—


i’d never seen so many skinheads

waiting for the bus at once

until i got to sydney


an unlovely bunch of coconuts

departing for the beach,

shirts tucked in socks—


tarkovsky’s stalker but the quarry

stops to fuck the con man in a quarry

verdant with discovered colour


kneeling knuckle deep in dirt

somebody made off with my bike

in silence, left the card




leaving society i met a guy

living inside an orgone hangar

in latrobe     expelled from horror school

for boasting of his real intent to finish

life a figment of his own imagination

in full bloody regalia to make a film of

everything     unauthorized     immense

wherever you are ian i remember

sleeping in your moldy hammock

holding your cloaked hand



brutalism is most photogenic when abandoned

on a tundra in the nineties in a book

the simulation of another earth depending on

the present gravity work shirts ascending

a corroded ladder to the stars an escalator

still as stairs a textbook favourite of the kids

raised over carpet in the crystal suburbs

where a surfeit of design draws contract

after contract nothing like a social dungeon

where to watch another’s crumbling face

in close-up drastic pastures of imporous waste

the moss like stubble shoulders crumble

everybody loves an underwater palace

not apparently enough to drown the world




left everybody free

no happiness behind

i really meant it

life like being cute


asks meaning s-o-s

osmosis I knew that

from being left back

way before is was


frank messaging

a strong if small dis-

claimer social whiner

in the windowsill


a bully in the bar

tsk tsk you’re here

you’re really here

for real, for free—





Unclear to me why I keep doing this.

Start with one then add another on.

You’ll never be caught thoughtless

In such stolid garb, a stalwart in

Shared grid space. We’re exalting wall,

Then on the mend. A claim for once—

That poetry will model property relations,

Like any new development begins

In laser-cut acrylic, matching thatch

To pinhead footfall, picturesque.

Propertius built his house of pricks

Along the Esquiline, a very fine thing

To have done with patronage. Point

Contra point, our line is like a lean-to

Propped along the wall of capital.

The unread are less innocent, as fame

Is not redeeming. Tell me otherwise

Again, enabler, elsewhere over lunch



Cam Scott is a poet, critic, and improvising non-musician from Winnipeg, Canada, Treaty One territory. His suite of visual poems, WRESTLERS, was published by Greying Ghost in 2017.

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