A Rhapsody for Ken Slessor   Ken Slessor, you tosser, your oysters of imagery open; your bow-tie’s a gig at a wharf where the harbour-lights ripen   on pintles and gudgeons and luminous snags of the oceans, where hulls at their knocking go ruddering strangest emotions.   Ken Slessor, your whiskies are combed with the Darlinghurst nights; here ketches and liners go honeymoon in their sleek lights,   and rust on a hull has the tincture of gingery hair … O daydreamer dandy, you cocktail such bright otherwhere   for whimsies to walk in their cufflinks and green satin boots,…