untitled

There is fuck all that makes me cry
these days

I have hardened
like earth beneath a relentless summer
baked
and cracked
and dry

But today
the silence of the singing sands
is a report
shattering ear drums
and stopping traffic

It has made the war mongers pause
guns cocked but not firing

It has made the music fade away
into a drone of static

The children have jumped off
the swings
and gathered up their
mothers hands
standing beside them without a word

The mobile phones have stopped ringing
cars rolling to rest in empty streets

The sound of broken glass
is quiet


The lapping of waves
gone

For the singing sands are silent

and I cannot

cannot

recall their song.

Where we will be.

We are going beyond the boundaries
of the flat plains

into the heat haze
shimmering
beckoning wave

there will be empty pump bottles
and lolly wrappers stuffed into
arm rests on car doors.

There will be music
and faces seeking answers
in blurred bitumen.

We are going where the sun lies
still
red
ageless
in a poker face sky

It will linger
long beyond the cautious
probing fingers of nights
tentative first caress

laying rouge tiger strips
across my arm
the one dotted with too many freckles
resting out the car window

You and I
will ride in silence
words not required
as we move towards the same place
occasional half smiles offered and accepted.

Techno will leak
in tinny tones
from the backseat
almost contained by ipod
nano
shuffle
etc etc

Sometimes
a complaint about
my cd mix
will come sliding over the headrest
to slip around my throat
and tug gently
only to retreat
with resigned sighs

We move
beyond the boundaries
of the flat plain
and into
a waiting suns
patient eye.

Faith *Scecond Draft*

In unity

we strove.

Banners
raised above
the howling throng.

Our voices
took hold.

Hooked through flesh and bone
sinew for chains
we hung ourselves out upon
the dead oak branches.

Weeping
steeped in lore
ancient tears
trembled
and spilled upon
us.

Faces upraised
to receive sorrows

We took our faith
and broke it upon the surface of
La Tene
a thousand years past.

The offerings have changed
with the advent of isolation.

We have
only moments to give.

Where blood was once
the chant of hymn

Sacrifice
the succour of bountiful
pulsing life.


Beholden to none
we share stone and shield.

Frail ceramics
to remember us.

Pewter vessels
moulded in the softening fires
of the slain

Cooled in the raging mill pond
of time.

Mica shall be the colour of renewal
chipped and polished to gleam.

Embraced
I am Christ and Allah
Buddha and Vishnu.

Empowered
I am the earth mother
sleeping as my breast
feeds the multitude.

In unity
we return

*Note* I have trimmed out some of the early modifiers, thoughts?

Untitled

Blink neonic dreams
the blue
reflects off tears

I see you in desperation
the adrenalin kiss thrust
where eyes tick left right
in rapid successions

Pulsing with guitar echo's
a low scream building
beneath the flesh
enticing vanilla ice cream smiles

We trade in-a-whiles
our carefully nurtured nonchalance
a plastic cling wrap mirror
of deeper seasons
and all the reasons
we do not say anything

The humming of stand by
rising
to
fever pitch

till your skin itches
hair erects
and time collects
in the calluses on our palms.

I see you
in inclinations

the way you recline naked
steeped in a chardonnay smiles
languid layers of complexities
curling wild vines across your flesh.

And we

will never be

or be enough.

Untitled

We wrote ourselves into a corner

Where our convolutions
were mistaken
for revolution.


The circle diminishes
a shrinking diameter
where theories abound
and ultimately
we will run out of room to manoeuvre.

Corners
curving around us
in no particular formation
and all directions.

Your pen
is a feathered quill
still dripping from
the ink I provided.

Mine
a raw bone
not quite picked clean
the flesh
still clinging tenaciously
to give a hint of colour
in an otherwise
white expanse.

You ask me to write tomorrows mood
the rise and fall of weeping
as it catches our defeat
as
it
draws down on unpaid debts
as it
slides beneath thin skin to
stripped tendons of emotion
naked to the stinging air.

Breathe in
and feel the ache.

Remebering.

I am writing this to me as reminder.

I have lost track of how many times I have attempted to step beyond the narrow edges of my skill and become/evolve/grow into something/someone/somehow better.

It is a gift to think you are brilliant, the total refusal to accept reality, to accept limitation, gives this moron his head to run free with wild horses leaping over rough ground towards the mountain top where it all awaits.

"What was I thinking" has become my catch cry, the horror movie child’s voice chant background song to my days.

And that is just it, I wasn’t thinking, I am never really thinking, just allowing my mind to dance along to its own beat, travelling roads I have no experience of, and therefore, no right to write.

I am ashamed of my lack of self, how I cannot really accept that deep inside, I have a story to tell, in its misshapen evolution of blood, water, lust and hate, and somewhere, an abiding passion that swallows all before it, a great consuming beast of need that shambles through my dreams and devours days and nights with equal disregard. My denial of myself is my greatest achievement of all.

I have heaved the spade, thrown the sod, patted down the clay, buried me far deeper than the sun can penetrate, and it is so cool here, beneath.

Sometimes, I got it right, and said something just the way it needed to be spoken, elicited the words to tell a worthwhile tale.

But mostly, I am full of shit, and sick to death of it.

And this is to remind me, so that each time I allow my fucking puffed up sugar daddy of an ego to take over and spit out , regugitate, vomit up , shiney slick and self serving dollops of bullshit, I will remember

This is not who I am
or how it is
or what should be said.

My penance

will be remembering.

Untiitled

Someone is asking me about beautiful

On the paving stones I lay
so many years ago

a butterfly
dies silent.


Someone
is asking me
about pain

Rain
driving in
through
the holes
in us.

A filling
brimming
drowning.

Somone is asking me

but I have stopped

listening.

On being Super

Hero's are a dime a dozen

you can find them
glowing on any street corner

Tucking capes into jeans
smoothing down super stencilled names
on lean muscled chests


They chat and tap out tunes
with super feet
awaiting damsels
or dangers
or complete strangers
to call
or email
or yell from a tiny window far above

They smoke thin cigarettes
and show each other tattoo's
of serpents
of suns and stars
of hotted up cars
and holocausts.

And when the call comes
they strut and thrust out chests
in super duper
poses

And when the call comes
those that aren’t too drunk
or stoned beyond construction
or too caught up in metaphysical dissertations
and complex explanations

leap from super feet to the sky
cept those who cannot actually fly
they just flop onto the pavement
and bleed profusely
while the drunk stoned ones
laugh and point.

And those that can fly
assault the sky
with a myriad of colours and super powers
showering down on a helpless world
awaiting salvation

They seek and save
send those who are evil
to a waiting grave
all the while
offering mouthfuls
of white white teeth
and homilies
hewn from their mothers womb

In the after glow of redemption
the whole world spins in fawning gratitude
graciously forgetting to allude
to the damage caused
the broken cities
and shattered states
the flatten forests
and boiling seas

Super means collateral damage
is muttered by the grateful throng


Someone suggests
inventing a super song
to raise the praises to super hero's everywhere

But then

someone else suggests

that would be too much


Meanwhile
back on the street corner
the supers nudge each other and laugh
in loud reverberations
proudly show the new additions
to collections of scars
and indentations

<>No one questions
intent or direction
meaningless repetition
a growing infection
never mentioned
out loud.

Note: Absurd and utterly without meaning, this poem none the less,
wished to be written, to those of you who expect exemplary poetry
layered with brilliance at every turn, I apologise :)

<>

Untitled

There are walls within walls

The stud frame supports
secrets
beneath plaster cracks

a pencil of light
exposing truth

Sun Boy

He was

born on the lick of a solar flare

spat across the reaches

to reach us.

Thudding into the inertia of our lives

a searing streak of change.

He pulsed

an ember glowing

rose petal opening

unfolding naked and awakened.

We gathered

the multitudes of disavowed and

disaffected

collected by the after image of his journey

seared into our retinas.

When he spoke at last

it was a song of luminosity

tinder words brittle and flaring.

His invective devoured

those of us who stood too close

and would be consumed.

We became

the song of the flames need

a congregation of conflagration.

He told us

of incandescence

and how it was

to be the son

of the sun.

And we burned for him.

Today

It's 8.00am

and I am

Lands End


An isthumus
jutting into the spray of
the pacific

edged with kelp

plunging away sharply

scarred dark wet rock

wearing down

one billion years at a time

Untitled

Together
we could
cut haze out of our eyes
and dance the shadows
of suburban rage

Aching for pain
the cleft palette
of subtle nuance.

Winding awkward tongues
around
words tilting
sideways

Covet sane
the referred
restraint
of disparity
and the way it sits
still and green
as stagnant conversations.

Break
and apart
a hollow sound

Suck it in

There is space
between clamour
and the walls


Just enough room

to glow

Untitled

I am threadbare

light filters through

the worn weave.


Frayed

strands hang exposed

parting.

No patch
seamless
the way mum would sew

shut

the holes.

Untitled.

I was never ready

for the planing of edges

Ruffs of thin timber
slice and curl
caught in the nicked blade

Beneath
only pulp
and white ants reside

Bodies writhe
surge away from light
seething secrets
under good wood

And still
the whine
of the plane
coming closer.

On this day

I place an internet flower
in the endless cybernight

for Pumpkin

Lost in Oz
without red shoes to guide her home.



Born of the Long White Cloud


Left behind
by a man with empty eyes


my she find life and love
with those who would care for her.

Reason to breathe.

There is no separating
contention
the ache of color
and how it hurts
to exhale.


Divesting
ourselves of days
past and present
fall away in shimmering silver
reflections.

We gather agonies
something surreal to wail about
while the tear
caught upon your eyelashes
trembles patiently.

There is never ready
only the right moment
upended upon the table to scatter
in unruly disruptions.

Diving heedless into your weeping

I swim the teardrop
and hope you give me
a reason to breathe.

Untitled

She wept days

to be taken

gathered up and returned to her

bereft of anguish


Gratefully

she would accept them

bow in response

and gently put them on the tip

of her tongue


Tomorrow

she will weep days

and wait for the gatherers

to return

Beach wet sand in grey drifts.

I am waiting,

was always waiting,

when the wind howled in.

Tussock and saw grass,

buffeted,

a shack,

weathered boards in disarray.

We had lain in there,

naked,

oil lamp burning,

exchanging sadness and salt crusted kisses.

The weather could not get us,

save tiny gusts past rusted nails.

Rain drives in on the shoreline,

a single gull,

hovering,

fighting the wind.

I strike a match,

cup my hand,

burn down our memory.

I am waiting,

was always waiting,

for you.

Shelleyisms

Cynacism a draft best taken alone

Don't ask me
where does she get this shit?



I am ducking under the cut and thrust
a question poised on tip of tongue
falls unspoken into a surprised lap of the gods

And Shelley has the where with all
to label me hypocrite

She lashes left and right
striking unprotected flesh

I cannot protect myself from a reflection
the way she mirrors my disaffections

What a retarded conversation

she hammers home her point
a six inch nail straight through
the curve of my skull
and its not the content of her arguement
but more the way
it loops around itself
a serpent consuming its own tail
leaving no room for dissent

I don't buy it

No, and neither do I

Where Shelly Lives

<>
Where Shelly lives
I cannot go

If I enter her abode
I am caught

Underpants drape portable phone

Fluoro pink lip-gloss
pressed deep into carpet weave

Tattered posters of slim male dream boys
hang askew
bluetac smears peeping beneath gloss paper wrinkles

A power board sits beneath a dripping tipped glass
the water striking plastic
and flowing off the side
missing the tine holes by nanomillimeters

The ipod sits on a pile of mags
the wire poking rude from stripped plastic sheath

A graveyard to consumerism
a testament to the accumulation

of stuff

I close the door
for if I enter
her abode
I am caught

The Shelly Diaries Continued

There are moments


in between storm fronts sweeping through
before the shit hits
and all pretence is lost

when she smiles and says something
succinctly insightful

Or when she reads my mind
and articulates exactly my thought

We ride the same fucking pony
clopping along cobblestone roads
where the whole world bows down
and offers required obeisance

at times

I’ve nailed shut all the windows
and double locked the doors

and yet she can still seep in

The Shelly Diaries

Shelly waves us away like gnats


"you have no concept
or if you do
its tainted"
she expresses airily
flying around the TV cabinet
a moth without flame to seek


We assemble
or reassemble from total rout
and suggest parley

Shelly explodes without preamble
large chunks of derision
spattering the new couch
dripping from the cat
smeared on the newly polished floorboards

We wipe it away as best we can
with hands tied behind backs
with mouths of grim determination

We assemble
or reassemble
and seek terms

Shelley leaves us in her wake

a foaming trail
swirling down the hallway
to places we never wanted to go.

Its morning right?

The frost in snapping
the crunch
echoes like a bite of peanut brittle
shattering in teeth


I like the inhale
the sting of cold in the back of my throat
sharp and jolting
a frozen air shot of awake

My hands quickly pink
the tips of fingers
sunsetting shades
and throbbing

The backward arse country fuckers next door
have fired up the four wheel drive
the wash of deisel
surging over the fence
to drown me in fumes and grey

The door handle on the car
is iced and slick

Starting this day
as every other one begins
a ritual of repeated motions
requiring movement without thought.

Input advantageous but not essential

And thats the kicker isnt it?

These things
this myriad of small activities
we ply through
each one essential
to the sequencial construction
of a day
each one
a tread on the stairs
a rung in the
well....
you get the idea

We play out the part
walk the distances
open and close the obvious

meet and greet
breathe
move feet

and it can all happen
with mind in absentia
sifting through
yesterdays conversation
reassembling the lines spoken
to bring about a different outcome

Just an example
we are free
of the constraints of thought in daily
discourse
a little spark of us
offered here and there of course
but overall

free

I'm thinking of the way
we might reflect in the eyes of strangers
as we pass

I'm dreaming jasmine scented waters
steaming around my nakedness

I'm driving into tomorrow
renewed from today

and

its morning right?

because
truth to tell

I lost track....

Revisited.

Long Days.

On long days

she felt the presence of ghosts

in every room.

She would recite poems

the lilt of her litany

pushing back shadows.

Hands

on automatic

completing chores

without her mind engaged.

Self esteem

carefully wrapped

in rose scented paper

tied with dried stems.

The sun would glide

to its zenith

to the sound of poems

and the tingle

of hovering ghosts

waiting patiently for her.

Sometimes

she stole time

sat with knees

cat curled beneath her

in the garden

sipping tea.

There,

the spectres could not find her

her face would turn

open flower to the sun

letting the light suffuse her.

Later

she would go inside

and try to unwrap

rose scented paper

held with dried stems.

There are secret rivers flowing through my house

There are secret rivers flowing through my house

The sound of the rushing
comes to me
padding
footsteps in the hall
late at night

Whispers
mist around us
coil and writhe
to rise
against the cornice
to swirl down
obscuring naked bulbs
in hush

The flotsam
of wild tides
pinking tampons
floating
on the still waters
of the toilet bowl

And later
when it is not relevant

weeks past the flood tides crisis


I am told
in bed
late at night
as
the whispers
coil and writhe
around us

how my child
has joined the ebb and flow

Given to Artemis
and the wild hunt

Reflection

I have divested myself

of self


Allowed the weight of expectation
to fall


Pooling the moon around my feet

to stand within

a puddle of ambient light.

I’m waiting for us

patient impatience

finger tapping

white caps breaking

upon wet sand days.

The walking agitations

of disturbed air

puffing moon dust

around us.

Grey ash stirred

offers no reflections

as it

deadens the sound

of dislocation.

Between us
the lore is strong

tales of Cuchulainn
and Boadicea
fuse to skin
igniting word-song chants
to dance upon the endless dark.

With sonorous voices
we draw the threads of gilt
to slide through finger
worn and glittering.

Casting gold
to a midnight sky
we
embroider the sun.

Every word I ever wrote
ony burns for an instant

In the curl-blue of flame
each letter is redirected to the heavens


Rising higher and higher on the vageries of thermals
the ash dreams leap and swirl into the clouds

There to become
my poetry

written to an uncaring sky

I do not.

Tearing strips off the day

We peel away layers of light
to
expose it for the veneer it is

I do not have the answers

Together we watch separation
how it divides
and multiplies dissatisfaction

Your fear
an undercurrent
drawing me down
into you

I am not helpless
I could swim
if I thought staying above
the waterline would help

I do not have the questions

We bite down into the soft pulp of night

Succulent
the taste of blind belief

We eat our way through
midnights sweet nectars
sated on the juice of
no face
nor sound
nor name

I do not have....

Untitled

I
naked in the heat of your breath
born to accept
times
bending framework beneath us


Muscles taut
beyond thought
or rational construction

I have raised my eyes to see

but you blind me

with the sun

of singularity

Adrift
we move
beyond the curve of Andromeda

The prison of Universe
will not hold us

I press my cheek to this
cage of stars
and cry

release

Come Lover

Come lover,

there is no shame in death.

Dance us to sleep.

An orgasm of possibilities

sigh from your lips

sprout wings

screeching to be heard

I want answers

but your truth is Dante's vision

pain and torment

without surcease

deliciously gift-wrapped

in satin silken sensation

I dance for you

a brazen statuette

carved marble

pale shadow glows

deep resonance of

unbridled masculinity

And you,

keeping time with fingers drumming

with thighs alight in sultry flame

turn your face away

to taste the harm

Come lover

there is such shame in death

Dance for us

On Salisbury

On Salisbury

the curve of the earth

arcs away from you

toward the coming day.

You have become

the joining

Sun and sensuality

light emanating

from within

and without

And I

a menhir

raised in adulation

leaning towards you

ancient

runic inclinations

rope across

the time-smoothed surface of

my skin

Come

to me

Through the Sarsen circle

you wend in

a naked sacrifice

A garland in your hair

a sceptre

to grace thy fine bone fingers

a copper ring

for anticipation

a golden torc

to catch my tongue

You did not speak

yet I was told

to keep myself

to myself

And I did

I hid deep beneath

creeping roses

pressed into the rich earthen loam

Wrap me in word flowers

fragile colored syllables

to lie amongst

Slumber,

no

But death

yes,

a lover’s embrace.

I could lie quietly

inhale your fragrance

to exhale eternity

Held in thrall

a poem for a winding sheet

Self Indulgence

I was going to write something all deep and self important sounding

But it isn’t there today

hasn’t been there for many days in truth

I am not as important as I had once believed

The world spins wildly
and I am holding on with the tips of fingers
numbed and straining
teeth gritted

I have tried to track
when the changes occurred
from the days when I knew without a shadow of a doubt I
was the centre of my universe
and you all revolved around me
satellites giving light and colour to a sky only I could fly

nice rhyme Chris, slipped it in without a ripple of unruly

I don't mind that I am becoming background noise

I despise it

There is a place called Oblivion
and I am driving there now
music running down the leather seats of my car
threatening to drown me

and yes
I would drown in song
as I sail into my sky
a moments clarity
is worth a thousand days of just being

You think its all up for grabs
and then your fingers finally succumb to the ache
and you slip off the side of the world

No one even hears you falling

Utterance

You came

with ravens chattering

the streak of wisdom

for all to see.

Streams of women

flow from your lips

river cries

carried upon black wing

to crease the sky

so that man

with his many oiled fingers

cannot smooth it down again.

Beautifulterrible

uttering charms

of change

in silverstone purity

beneath mouthed obligations.

Carve your visage to

my skin

so I may speak

with ravens

We flutter fly in sunset song

The rustle wing hum

comforting suffocation

Dip
twist turn
milling mindless
within wide
crushing closeness

One moment

of dazzling individuality

breaking boundaries

the
solid snap of conformities restraints
ripple and retract

A leap of faith
the spark

the arc
of incandescent brilliance

flare

in brittle death

Title: Watching moths fly into a bug zapper

As a child
I died
and was raised up
once again.

On the gasp of northerlies
pressing air into lungs
too shocked to inhale.

I lay amongst the tussock
and dreamt the sky
would stop flashing past
the clouds scudding
into the dip of the ocean swell

only to sink
regardless
of my hands beseeching.

I tried to catch the sky
and wrap it in the warmth
of a wind cheaters clutch.

So many things
my fingers could not grip

the day

the
layers
of time
I was supposed to care for
and nurture
into the proper contours

Each thing
will follow its course
but I stood outside the flow
and built sand dams
to hold the future.

There was a cypress pine
I called sanctuary

Beneath a canopy of dry sweet
cakes
and golden dark tea stains
that spoke of goblins
and capricious spirits

I was hewn
from the open wound
of cut wood

The chips flying
ripping awareness into eyes
lowered and averted

The bark stripped away
to expose pulped
belief

We knew wrong
all of us
who resided within
the gnarled branches

We saw it
clearly in the bleeding sap and
the brittle leaves turned
brown with death

Always the wind.

The lines on my fathers face
were a relief map of the sun
and the wind

He caught the roaring forties
with his skin
so that his face was often
a tumult of arctic cold and
threatening gales.

Mother makes scones
hard as tack
but when we spread the butter
over the heated dough
and dolloped raspberry jam
my mouth would salivate
and I would clap small hands with glee

Standing against
the hem
of a flour smeared
apron
the same one she had had
for twenty years
the smells of our kitchen
permeated into the weave
of green leaves and
fading red rose pattern


I would clutch her leg
as she moved across the lino floor
laughing
pretending to shake me loose

Brushing hair out of her eyes
leaving white flour prints
in the black

My father yells
and the rafters shake
with the promised storms
brooding black cloud and driving rain
coming in sideways through the open window

His voice
a constant thrum of relentless howling
pushing us back
mother out of the kitchen
and into a frowning tight lipped
silence

and I
into the cupboard of my bedroom
where the blankets were stored
and I could curl up on the floor beneath
the heavy flannel
hands clamped to ears
to block out the storm

Sometimes
he passed in the night
and the morning was broken by sunshine
on wet grass
the cold clouds scudding away over the straight
to leave a blue
that hurt to see

Sometimes
he stayed for days
bringing dark early each afternoon
leaving the ground a muddy smear
which would gather on your gum boots
and weigh you down till you could barely walk.

And always
the wind was
in him
around us.

Repost

And what if you had actually gotten

what you wished for?

Then the Heavens

then the swelter of summer after all

the oiled insinuations

of skin

in bronze and amber

Wishes are horses

stamping impatient

in the morning air

snorting steamed mist

into your face

They move as one

perfectly accentuated

brush strokes

across the eye of God

You will harangue me

for my lack of initiative

for my disposal of possession

But I cannot come to ride beside you

the reins have slipped

the saddle

tilts

I am stuck in the earth

as silt gathers between my toes

in eons

I have no time love

time is rewinding

redefining itself

around the narrow

bones of your fingers.

And the horses

shiver in anticipation

for they have caught the scent

of prophecy

moving westwards

away towards them

Explanation not given

I give you no opportunity
to commune with me on any level
deeper than the thick
congealing blood in my mouth

You are asking me

leaning over my shoulder
the soft sacred scent of lavender
assailing

how I can write poetry
when I will not allow an emotion
to come within hailing distance

A ship
far out to sea
swaying gently on a
soulless swell

How can I explain?

Poems are runes
hieroglyphs
still warm with the chant of ancient priests
glowing deep in the depths
of our bellies

They are sustenance
and famine
to leave us
sated and starving everyday

and everyday
is another search

another projection of purest intention

Another sad and sorry tale
never mentioned in pleasant conversation
but running
an undercurrent tugging at the legs of our jeans
drawing us toward a vortex of thought made physical

The words are older than our forefathers
longer than their straggling beards
deeper than the bass timbre of their
remember voices

They call forth
all the essence of humanity

in shining perfection

and recollections of
shame and dismay

And they taste
of copper
as the heave themselves from my stomach
to land
flopping and stumbling
onto the page

With gentle care
I will teach them to speak
train each sentence
in the vagaries of nuance

I will give them
the internal rhythm

A breath of life
the in
the ex

and they will calm
beneath my ministrations

respond to my measure tone
and slowly give us

the next chapter
of tomorrows to come

You will turn away

a reflection of my grim countenance

from another explanation

not given

Modern Lovers

I'm gunna rock pop sock it to ya

splash it in your eyes

Hell yeah
I finally got the gist
figured it out
learnt how to shout

Culture is just the latest
clumsy plastic fantastic
doe-eyed drug fuelled
sex on legs
begging for it from every url in site

We are the sum of our diversity
the clash of east west
and look at the god damn breasts on that!!!!

Its not so bad
as we sink into a sea of obesity
and silicone insertions
our fake ass
bullshit media exertions
are not for naught

You will be my pretty pretty
street wise
cute in a short shirt
wanna flirt kinda way

And I can be a metro sexual
admittedly totally ineffectual
as an alpha male

But smelling
sweet as a summer wine
with fragrant cheese

We will please each other
between the pages of Who
and Zoo
a full page shoot
the gloss not lost
on perfect burnished skin
and the carcinogens
from tanning salon nights
will not kick in for years

Our pointless existence
tracked through the
wear and tear on business suits

Childless
lifeless
antiseptic lovers
releasing fluids to the sky

Aspiring to nothing more
than the latest PDA
a blackjack
blackberry orgasm
of electric dependence
tapping our lives
into small devices
seeking solace in acceptance
allowing the painfully empty
conversations in elevators
and round coffee machines
to summarise our place
in the scheme

Remove your panties

and I will dust your soul
with coke



together
to find angels
in sexual gymnastics

No no
don’t cry
the ache will pass

someday.......

Tired

I can still hear you

Over the clamour of red wine
and white lines
on clear table tops

Over the white noise
joyless machinations
of Big Brother
whining its moronic song
to a mass of mind wasted zombie fucks
eyes dripping glue
mouths agape to intake
the mush pap smear viscosity
presented as TV

A pseudo psycho haunting
not quite the whole deal
just echoes of echoes

And while your not always there
when I turn around

I feel the warmth of where your feet hath tread
the heat emanating
from your passage through
my relentless circling
lust

If I break it down
into its simple parts
I can clearly define
where the lack of actual begins
and phantasms consume

Leap left of me
and always walk in shadow
and I will join you

If you left me alone
I would gladly pine
the scent
a sharp stab of regret
letting go is
just another place I
wish to acquaint myself with

but no
there you are once more
a smiling countenance
surging up through the floor boards
spectral fingers
sliding ever so

slowly up skin muscle bone

the way you seep
and infuse

the way I lack ability

to refuse

Uncertain days

Between them
the past was a ceaseless
white on white

A clean page
pen poised above
fingers trembling with tension
to write a history
but the ink
unable
to spill to paper

She receded into the shadow worlds
wervyn and were- creatures abound
the moving shapes
leaving burning images
on her filigreed curtains

She
closed doors
wove protective shells
layered crystal and calcium
building carefully around her
till she could not see without

and none could come within.


And he
had no recourse
to make contact

His curse
was to be incorporate

a ghost in the machinery
seen vaguely as a backdrop
for the completion of destinies

He made up the numbers
during daylight hours

but secretly at night
when the lights were extinguished
he would press glowing spectral fingers
to the smooth surface of the road outside his house

The tar
melting beneath touch
allowing phrases and thoughts
to sear into the coarse much travelled pathways

He would leave whole stories
of men without mouths
who could not speak desperation

Of men without faces
who could not frown

Of a women
encased within a seashell

He wrote tales
of prophecies foretold

of a seeking for wholeness

from the one person who could offer it


who was forever

saying no

And by morning
the winding script
swirled and wavered across
the blackened thread

Telling his story to no one
but the tyres
as they ran upon him
and smeared him dark again

Prices

I have done what you asked


I lit the votives

murmured hymns of abasement

prostrated myself

at the alter

Allowed you to heap
humiliations
on my bowed neck

Burn indignities
into my hot flesh

I submitted to all of this
as you fluttered
around the light
brushing against the heated bulb
with thin translucent wings

never in danger

Untitled

There’s a woman
on a swing
at 7.30am
trying for free
missing it completely
looking self conscious
and lost and
becoming the little girl
she wishes to be
in all the wrong ways
all the shy self depreciation
uncertainty in each shuddering
upward arc
to hang
exposed to the sky
then fall again
and again




I am driving past
the past
pedal flat to the ground
making the blur my company
talking to the smear of greenery
and concrete
colourless haze
in companionable familiarity
hoping for response

accepting sullen

My hands have melted to the wheel
becoming another shade of
chrome and steel
spinning left and right

Steering the course
a pilot at the helm of the Cutty Sark
cleaving waves with the salt spray
stinging cheeks and freezing fingers
to the weathered timbers
eyes clenched in grim determination
losing sight of elation

that joyful sensation I coveted

My car is another destination
a place travelling with me
somewhere to be go
a staff in the hands of a mage
wielding power
with the spark of ignition
replacing witch fire burning

I am taking me now

the howl of the engine
a raging wind released
a ravenous beast unleashed
upon the herd
slaying ideologies
and hope with the same
slavering rending fang indifference

I have no time left
because I have left it on
the kitchen bench
a post-it-note
stuck to a used plate
explaining
that I'm still not complaining
I just cannot face my face
any longer

The rear vision mirror
pushed to an angle
so I cannot see behind or within

And will you come?

Sister of the starlit sea
I know you wish to join me
in all my frail complexities

in all my blaze of glory
end of story finalities

I will look for you

on the yellow pink gentle palette
painted on the sunset I am heading for

Gifts

She told herself

the price was too high


And wrapped her soul
in tin foil and sticking tape
wound round and around
till she could never be found

She told herself

a gift is freely given

And sealed herself
in molten sand
the glass reflecting
her hand against the surface
a smear of uncertainty

She told herself

the choice was hers


and it was.

One at a time

I have drawn another day

to my breast

savoured its air

inhaled its scent

run naked through its morning warmth

lain rested in its noon heat

wandered thoughtful across its afternoon shadows

and lit a fire

in its pressing dark

An exploration of any given period

I will wear my shame
with pride


The purity of self loathing
in the shimmer
of sable

A cloak of incantations

Within the hood
each rune
sears sins
into my skull

No hiding
or
denying

Each bright blot upon
the chapters of life
clearly inked
and synched to
short falls
lies
averted lines of
thought
sliding
sidewinder through eyes

Let the day
expose
pathetic excuses
and hastily erected
defences
around
whining cajoling
disclaimers

I will suck it in
suck it down

Awaken to aching doubt
and fall asleep to the lullaby
of why

Disparity *Language Warning *

It isn’t poetic

or pretty

The curve of your sex
angles away
around corners of conversation
into complexities of sleep deprivation
and time poverties
weary
thread bare insistence

And yes
it
aches

bone deep
interrupting sleep patterns
scattering thoughts to random

A lurid regimes totality

each day
a collection
of tiny self denials

There is no understanding
of imperative for you

It remains
an abstract
inconclusive
and elusive
ignored and deplored as
an inability
to control

And when will we fuck
do you think?

I do not want romance
and soft imprecations tonight
I am not capable of dimming the lights
and massaging my way into your
good graces

The energies arc and flare
setting skin into flame enhanced
dancing nerve
self serving
seductions

I covet
the taste of you

Want is a waste
a cock
turned to stone

<>The disparity of desire
personified in
the press of rigidity
against averted flesh

Body Language

Your skin is fable

Tales
undulating
curving beneath
my questing eyes

Stories
of troll and fairy fire

The circle
in which
I dance widdershins
a wild cavort
of reckless behaviours

Legends of Homer
an arrow shot through aligned rings
a journey travelled
looping over islands
winding through
witches hidden
caverns

I read you without cessation
devouring words
scavenging meanings
woven within context

Seeking completion
in the never ending fantasy
you are to me

Foot note to Wildflower paths

Far be it from me to put the general public in danger

This was posted as a reply to Wildflower paths on a website I post at

It should come with a warning though: Foxglove is Digitalis, a powerful heart stimulant, and can be very dangerous. Even handling the leaves can cause and elevated pulse and shortness of breath.

I am almost postive I was not promoting the concept of smearing fox glove onto your hands and wearing it like a glove.. well maybe I was, BUT NOT FOR REAL LADIES AND GENTLEMEN
that would be silly wouldnt it, because , it might kill you *rolls eyes*


I also suggest you dont cornflower your skin
or put eyesbright into your eyes
and hopefully, no one will step into our foot prints after
we have moved on, lest you get forgetmenot on your feet
and EXPLODE

*sighs*

Never too civilised

We ignore the warning signs
the flashing neon
Freon gas noxious cloud of undercurrent
sweeping us away

You
with all your choices
neatly arrayed on the buffet
beneath the china plates
behind the photo's
black whites of us
looking wind swept and interesting

Light and dark I said
and smiled although it was a cold pleasure
with no real heat to make the lips curl correctly

Light and shade you corrected
because you have not given up

will never give up

And yes
there is a howling
barely heard beneath the gentle strains
of our tune
a grating screech
bringing bloodsong
and wilderness

And my wilding
is sides of suggestion
another perspective
no one wants
and everyone turns slightly away
from

You covet although and other
interpretations

the opportunity to correct the politics
too enticing to pass up


Still hold onto us with gritted teeth

even when I bite your hand
the hand
that feeds

Distances.

What do we know of distances?


Between us rests
the fullness of time
voices of history
echoing into flesh

resonating
the past

vibrating till the shrill
wind of tomorrow
gales and blusters
scattering carefully assembled
memories

Our declarations
made
in the safety of seclusion

I can see our questing


Tibetan prayers
hanging on the elm
thin paper pleadings
spin and flutter
to be ripped asunder
sacrificed
to the simplicities
of natural order

Our skin
turns to rivers
flowing in reversal
the eddy and whirl
seeping from one to the other
till I do not know which way to go

Drawn into the current
left to flow sluggish
and discoloured

Wildflower Paths

I have returned

Carved a path through
honeysuckle days
to allay our disquiet

We will reacquaint ourselves
with peaks and valleys

Hands tucked
in foxglove snug

We stare into
then through
watching eyebright
shining incandescence
leaving shimmer trails
of sight

You crayon my skin
cornflower shades of yesterday

Listen to the sound of us
with cats ear clarity
the way we
twitch this way
and that

Forget-me-nots
will spring
from our
receding footprints

To leave
wildflower paths
for others to follow

Suggestions of metaphor *revision*

I had you once
caught in the moment
between sunrise

and when my fucked up eyes could
open
allowing the morning to
stream into grey scale spaces
graining the surface of optic nerve

Hell is a sparrow
tumbling from the branch.

Feathers
can not break the fall.

Wings will not bring saviours
hymns and harps strumming

the eternal host is not coming
to lend
a hand
to land upon.

Bones are brittle
hollowed by the men with pipes
and illustrations of
the past
winding into their eyes
drawing stories of the sun and sea
upon wrinkled cheeks.

When they finally speak
the words
become carved wooden craft
let loose upon cobalt waters
adrift
and shifting through dimensions
whispering the tales of lovers
and Gods together
how mortal and immortal
can create worlds and sky scapes
with sex
and lawless passions
scrawled upon

the cheeks of old men with pipes.

I had you once

Encased in amber
a millennium passing
in the press of a kiss.

Tomorrow is a chick
mouth agape
impatient
for succour
as we strive to reach the nest

Bad days

run in packs

Lopping easy strides
through the light foliage
of your life

Dogging heels
following scent trails

Spreading out in loose formation
arcing around
to surround

And when
you are exhausted
crazed with fear and pain
and gasping
on trembling legs

They take you down

with barely a sound

Clearly Obscured

I had you

caught in the moment

between sunrise

and when my fucked up eyes could

open to allow the morning in

once again.

Hell is a sparrow

tumbling from the branch

feathers

can not break the fall

Wings will not bring saviours

hymns and harps

the eternal host

a hand to land upon

Bones are brittle

hollowed by the men with pipes

and illustrations of

the past

winding into their eyes

I had you

encased in amber

a millennium passing

in the press of a kiss

Tomorrow is a chick

mouth agape

impatient

for succour

as we strived to reach the nest

Untitled

There is no one here now
the dream
the thought
the sea scented impressions
I have left on your flesh
are
drying and fading


My life is a husk,
the dead shell of being
where once the sweet juice
would rouge my lips with existence.

Empty is not the end
it does not contain the finality
of completion
just the echo and yearning
for what was

There is no one here now
long gone
I have taken my words
my soul calling
sky falling
and tucked them into
the sun

Given
something for everyone
but me

Untitled

The strains of piano
drawn over weeping

Your fingers
running
the dance of song
thin and delicate
they press
to caress the keys
into acquiescence

Each note hovers
a quavering question

You draw the limp day into sound
raise the fronds of what was once
and should now be

And
I will unwind in forgetting
a fallen leaf
soaring on the song
swirling random design

A fae breeze to lift
and release

seasons caught in the sun on your hair
reasons left far behind
in the arguments we almost gave voice
but then
defused with the snuffing crush of our fingers

Linking into skin and eyes
sinking beneath resistances
to seek
solace in harmonies

Sing with me
the chorus of caress
the song of flesh

You have tapped the last note
to float towards me
in the suggestion of

yes

These will be my days of stone


Unmake me
and recreate me
in the shape of a Menhir

Let me stand
alone for ten thousand years
so that I may learn love

Tales to tell

And it came to pass the earth could not take the abuse any longer, her soil
was dry and dying, her flora, wilted and disappearing, her fauna, missing in action.

For fifty years, she toiled, to shape an emissary, one who would embody all the attributes
of the world, her magic was still strong, although each indignity man perpetrated upon her
diminished her a little more each day, she had gathered magic over the course of a billion
years and she wielded it now, in blazing trails of crimson fire, she gave the Scout as she called him, arms hewn from the sun, in surging tendrils of aquamarine, she gave him legs which danced like the tides, in alabaster delicately applied touches, she gave him the skin of the sky, white of cloud, white of eternity, white of no-more-tomorrows.

When she was done, she lay down naked beside him, and kiss-hushed her stories into the shallow curve of his ear, she told him all of her history, the time of fire, when volcanoes ruled and she spat fire and flame and lava miles into the sky, the glorious burning of youth raging through her, she set fire to the air and burst apart, bubbled and grew, receded and cooled.

She told him of the time of the reptiles, how they ravaged her with their endless hungers, and how they died in a single week of destruction when the sky sent a rock hurtling into her, hurting her deeply, slaying her for a time.

She told him of the rise of man, a slowly growing menace, who simply forgot who she was, and how much he needed her.

And when she was done, the Scout rose and slowly ascended to the surface.

Pausing Continued

There’s a stone in my mind
speaking of prophecies

patient with my rage
calm beneath the surge of negations

I want and want and want

inviolate
impotent
distilling the pure alcohol
of self rejection

my stone
turns wine into water

And when I'm speaking in
the twisting tongues of what-if

my stone
wedges in my throat

Silence
in the weight of a rock
no air escapes
no words escape

and I pause

Picture me somewhere

Picture me somewhere

Lip syncing to life
my mouth
shaping responses to unasked questions

I'm ok
truly
a seer
steeped in the serendipity
of simplistic requirements
going above but never beyond

I hear you
when you call out
across the verdant pastures of otherwise
a voice carried to me
nestled within the wings
of a white bird

I can pick out your sound
over the hum
a succinctly pitched cry

To bring weeping softly days

to raise eyes skyward
seeking purchase on the slickened sides
of tomorrows uncertain decisions

to make me pause.....

Something Beautiful

I'm writing something beautiful for you

It's the only thing I have to give


It does not come so easily
these days

the words are shy and try to turn back
as I draw them to my fingers

The cat is scratching at the door
a tabby paw
shooting through the gap underneath
and retreating just as fast

She loves me
though her love is fleeting
and given to leaving at a moments notice

That branch I have not trimmed
the oak
is brushing against the window
sliding out erratic notes of life song
upon the glass
delicate the sound
a chiming
keeping time to my typing

The phone will not ring tonight
no one will chance to switch
on the naked bulb
swinging above me
the dark coils within the pc hum
and I am numb
a place where heat and cold
fold into themselves and touch me not

I was hoping to write you the sun
all brimming light and rays
to fill the days you have not seen

But tonight
I have only soft silent patience
a mauve scented lavender rhyme
a fractured way of keeping time
with my heart
the simple beat
endless and familiar

urging the words to surge through me
to you

find you where ever you are
reach you and beseech you
to feel me

Untitled

I hear

only what I want to hear

And I still hear you

not this nothing
this burst of still
which surges across me

I hear existence continued
the
in and ex of breath

I hear blood
and the strumming of your heart song

I hear you

not this senseless space created by dark
matter
where no light will shine

I hear
laughter and light
and the way you could make me smile
on tough days

I will keep listening
beyond the dirt piled high upon you
press my face to the soil
and wait for words
for the
in and ex of breath

for sound

your sound
the uniqueness of your essence
as it washes over me


Take your silence away
I have no use for quiet
fill me with song and sound
and your days and your past
and you and you and you.

We did not say goodbye

The answering machine
whined softly as I left a message
hanging in your lounge room

Just seeing how you are,
when your feeling up to it,
give me a ring

But you didn’t feel up to it did you?

As your body
shut up shop
putting thick texta signs in all
the windows
closing down

God pressed his burning lips
against the soft curve of your ear
and spoke the words

Board up the doorways
empty the shelves
disconnect the phones
you are coming home

Turn the open sign inwards
peel the stickers away
let dust gather on the stools
and counters
let magazines
and letters clutter
just inside the entrance
shoved beneath the door

And he took you
before I could say anything

Today
is a black rainbow
embracing embered skies

No pot of gold awaits

only the place you stood

inside me

bereft

Untitled

You are startled by conversation
a leaping deer nimble
over pit-traps
and pauses

The ink has not dried
on the past
we smudge the edges of yesterday
with a careless hand
blurring the truth
to more a more acceptable
script of quasi bullshit


Husks of days
swirling beneath your bare feet
the softcrunch
as each is flattened to make
a pathway

Tread lightly love
lest you crush the morning
I had promised

I am more careful these days
less inclined to gleam unrestrained
I have retrained my aura
to shimmer subdued

Poetry ~ Lure

Spin shine

refractions
catch the sun
then release

as we were

I will send this line
this twisting shimmer
to dance cavort
upon you

You are so still
this early
only the gentle lapping
of your hands against me

I can sit and talk for hours
as you swirl beneath the
idle circles of my bare feet
within you

Entice to dive

A depthless dark
of dreaming awaits

Your breath
will be sweet clear
a caress
clinging moss and
slickened rocks
to pull me down

I will fill with
crystal clarity
I know

and we can reinvent still
together
save the endless lap
of your hands

Poem - Contemplations

Does it sit well?

The ever widening gap
between a greeting card version
of heaven
and you can guess the variance


A sense of urgency
normal now
an adrenal lick
at the base of the stomach
just enough to make you swallow
a little
harder

I cannot turn the TV on
the fear of what will be unleashed
has taken my will away
I leave it dark
and brooding in the mahogany cabinet
we bought out right
without two thousand years interest free
with 900 percent residual to pay at the end

The kids are white-water rafting through the days
white knuckle grip on
all the things we have tried to impart
a moral code
tapped out in Morse
which will not interface with ipods
going up stream on an iriver
flat and mat finished to be
dull beyond the edges of blunted expectations

Somewhere in the back of my skull
I realise
its all bullshit
the striving
and never arriving at
a destination
printed out in glossy copies
of GQ

But even so

even so.......

Who Said

Who said cosmetic surgery is wrong?

I want it all,
a hip slippin butt tuckin
silicon storm

I want enhancements that make
Serena Williams' booty look like
a flat Nevada desert road

Botox me baby
screw it,
insert a whole puffer fish into my forehead
let the lil devil swim around
it’ll be a conversation piece

Collagen,
yes please,
tell ya what,
suck some of that pouting bulge
outta Angelina Jolie's lips
and put it into my butt,
then she can be kissin my ass
for the rest of time

Lipo me sideways

suck it out

suck it down

make me a six packin

skin stretchin

sex god

with rippling indentations

of Pecs and packs

and Triceps push

suck last nights

burger and fries outta my

distended belly

And finally,

when the bandages come off

and the skin has healed

I’ll be a blank faced

skinny assed sucker

with a debt and no way

to frown about it

Poetry -Wrecked

Flotsam

Adrift
we skate upon the wave
the depth
of endless

We recede
a glimpsed glimmer of something
solid
catching the sun
only to depart beneath
a rolling swell

Jetsam

The sand claws and clings

A rush of water over our dismay
pushing us further onto the shore

The tide sings
and brings salt tainted tears

We loll
limbs drawn with the motion
mouths open to receive the sea

Lagan

Still attached
you are beyond my touch

I cannot raise myself up
to meet your slowly sinking form


Soaked and heavy
I am drawn down to find you
caught in the whirlpool
we spin and part
allowed glances
but no second chances

Where do you go

I have caressed
the silk screened distances
you will not cross
to know us

The way it sedates
seeking to
becalm tempestuous nature

You avert your face
from pelting rain
the jags electric
halo
wind driven
raging frustrations

Please
I implore
do not send thoughts of continued
belief my way

I am God Damned

a sinner in truth

Fire and brimstone my balm
to soothe flesh seared by your
head shake of negation

A finger ticking side to side
in denials

A voice
small and strong
reverberating long after the words
of refusal have died on my skin

There is nothing now
just the last light mist of rain
and the memory
of potency in the soft wind ruffling
the grass beneath me