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....