Made love for so long to the glass in my palm
that even the most beautiful soon lost their charm.
Bourbon or vodka, "Slice of lemon"?, "Yes please"
my drunken flirtations a sexual tease.
Drunk straight how it burns and brings on the flush
the brain numb and sodden to a life in a rush.
Do you hate me or it, the Beast in my soul
all consuming and hungry that swallows me whole?
To love you I'd love to but I need something else
it's there when I'm lonely and boredom is Hell,
it's like it has feelings and needs to be needed
regardless of guilt I drink on unheeding.
Were you willing I'd share, if you covered the costs
of time and money and friendships I've lost.
When I wake up I'm shaking like I'm coming apart
so close to the end I can't remember the start.
I drink doubles or singles, with mixer or straight
closed-eye relaxing I float back through the hate.
Noises become a soundtrack to the life that I hold
fingerprints I leave on the glass so cold.
This romance I've created has a mind all it's own
with me in control when I'm perched on my throne.
I answer to no-one except the feeling at hand
I'd come to you now but you wouldn't understand.
Made love for so long to the pain in my arm
that evn the most beautiful soon lost their charm.
The white or brown, with a lemon drop squeeze
my drugged up hard on a sexual tease.
The rush how it burns and brings on the bulge
the numbness and deadness, sweet-lips cannot solve.
Do yo hate me or it The Beast in my soul
all consuming and hungry that swallows me whole?
To love I'd love to but I need something else
it's there when I'm lonely, when I'm outside myself
it's like it has feelings and needs to be needed
regardless of guilt I plunge on unheeding.
Were you willing I'd share if you covered the costs
of time and money and friendships I've lost.
I'm shaking and sweating like we're drifting apart
so close to the end I can't remember the start.
I take one lump or two, dink it white or black
closed-eye relaxing I float away and then back.
Noises become a soundtrack to the visions I behold
skin crawling and clammy, to the touch I'm so cold.
This romance I've created has a mind all it's own
with me in control when the white-dove has flown.
I answer to no-one except the fire and the "Man"
I'd come to you now but you'd never understand.
A victim of her own mentality
symptomatic: the modern tragedy
a call toward her ancestry
became a scream to no avail.
The slide to unfamiliar obscurity
denied any physical security
with a back full of sharpened cutlery
a face she kept for you.
Chained down by the hopes of family
contempt thrown through unfamiliarity
she cries poor in the hope of charity
the best of her stays lost in time.
The silent phone is it's own testimony
a whole world denied it's destiny
living now befert of company
on a throne sitting ragged and torn.
She was just some-one I knew, a face now cast aside
the name means less than what it cost
than the tears she never cried.
You spoke the words that broke the heart
and choked the throat that lied
You took the vow of the when and how
and left the world that died.
To make the fist with the bloodied palm as hatred burns you up
you saw the real, the fanatical zeal, with eyes that never shut.
Do you feel the urge to binge and purge?
Took to refuge so far away.
Time passed you by, you felt them die, behind words you couldn't say.
The ash-tray breath lies again and rolls her over and dominates
he fingers his pride
lifts her toward the chill.
I've seen him and known him for years
hours as a lab-rat, now days set loose in sewers.
Human refuse his diet
"Feast on their minds"
"Take life for a dessert".
Minutes ticked away in nicotine silence,
breaths seem wasted
words found a sanctuary of their own.
The guilt slipped easily from shrugging shoulders and found a home between the eyes in lead.
He was fashion
he was high-priced chic.
The pile grew at his feet as the pile on the mirror shrank then resurrected itself in a mug.
The vicious circle of "It's understood" finally found it's tail.
My head swims with the visions of those I'm denied
eons that came from moments
that turned flashes to reasons for excitement.
A touch from them to me, a tongue licking lips, the scent of newly washed flesh
All there like a dream, a nightmare of beauty.
My mind achingly full of the carefree.
Yet with me as careful as with a child or a father's pride and joy.
The tarnish kept for the every-day, for me their best, their extreme
their pouty sulk at a missed line
hands held in security
blankets shared on warm October afternoons
Show me them all
HERE!!!
NOW!!!
AT ONCE!!.
Blend them,
swirl them
to the God creation.
A sneaky curl outside striped silk
swollen pink behind borrowed white
an outline beneath a single towel
buttons hurriedly found by trembling fingers
black lace under more black lace
limbs long and lean, athletically muscled through strain.
Their request for a turned head some sign of secrecy
the secret so known.
Tasted, scented, sighted, unbelieved.
And now they drown in my recognition
caught and held
the first glimpse of the naked.
They can't frustrate me to stupidity
my appreciation that I was even there reward enough
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Television's like a goldfish bowl, like the friend that won't shut up, won't listen to your side of the discussion, it's got a train of thought running, it doesn't slow down, it doesn't hit stations you jump, jump onto a patch of ground when an advert comes on, you hit the ground running, piss or shit, make the coffee, find the choclate biscuits mum hid in the same spot they went missing from last week, you're inebrious, you're sober, you're bored and famished, the argument's still seething, alone in the corner, it's losing, losing to ignorance, losing to choice, losing to the flick of a switch, lost all sign of life.
Television's like a panacea for loneliness, it's on and noisy, and it's music, or it's the replay of the football, and your back's truned, head's down, fingers around a pen to a page, or hammering on those keys of another screen that shines silent but bright, ticking the seconds away in the "Right-side-top", this screen suffering your pride, the screen at your back priding itself on your acceptance, your total belief, your idolisation, get down on knees and face the cathode Mecca, "Channel 9", "Channel 7", "ABC, ABC", like a mantra, glowing Gods so colourful, so pure, so indestructible, Captain Scarletts by the score, talking heads in artificial triple haloes, voicing like shadows the language of the wholesome.
Television's like a telescope to another world dwelling in mirrored nescience of you curled up in blankets and hope, insight dawning by the second, of Kakadu, the Blue Danube, Riverdancing to the tune of info-tainment, celebrities sprouting, burning in fake flames then dying the death in a change of contract, a change in diet, a change in hairstyle or camera angle, hunting pieces for the cutting-room floor, green-room scenes, back-stage passes, late-night swearing brawlers, non-thinking drunken slurrers, "BOY", like it's out of focus or smeared with grease to becloud the edges, to screen the real, all made-up,chimera after chimera, piles of foundation on which to paint "Such a pretty face", opted for at random and sucked so far up to the lens it could be obsession, it could be a slide under the microscope, bacteria purling, amoeba swarmimg, two solids pressed so fixedly together how could anything survive?
Television's like a good place to hide, the world's oppression pets the windows and walls, poverty stirs up the dirt in the pantry, paranoia strolls the streets on the hunt for another victim, or to launch itself as saviour number 5 calls "Come to life", "Come to your senses", a consensus, shared opinions, a cabal en-masse, debating, questioning, "Why, what, who and where?", "What for?", reasons become irrelevant, goals forgotten, rabid fanaticism, the works of darkness, Princes falling foul of the Republic, philosophy borrowed over a season, Winter boring down, pneumatic-clutch drilling on in marathon, no Paris to savour from high on a parapet, no spouting tongue of drowning flame, no gentle cat stroking it's back and sides around calves, no refugees in need of sanctuary.
Television's like a dog that doesn't need exercising, doesn't neeed food or water, doesn't need the backyard cleared of daily reminders, strung all over like "Mad Woman's Shit", slung on the laundry line, feline telepath disclosing all, massive disruptions in domestic beatitude explainable in the early hours over comfort in satin-black, bolstered, bloody-eyed aand impoverished, the years to come too long to wait, parents and siblings doing nothing for something together, wicker-work fraying, scarring, secreting a cache beneath the boards, morning glory a barricade to idle voyeurs, pre-mature mourning, solace poised patiently on a front verandah pining for re-admittance, guilt free, innocent, satiated wanderlust, a brief re-aquaintance with the "Old" neighbourhood, palpating, smiling, screening the piercing with shade, early afternoon through the evening, into the darkets hours, collaposing, spent, exhaustion clawing at rasping lungs, limbs taut and strained, liquefied, coated in a film of sheer ecstacy.
Television's like a Lady on the train detoured from Melbourne with luck in a pair of 21 spotted cubes on her bicep rolling with the times, shrugging off just a vestige of the lack of an introduction, drinking "pots", Bear screaming the "Anti Sex" message, aliens pitched at the tether, palming bravado, silent and suffering the Winter's chill, a momento to take home, brief notes in rhyme of love in a saucer with change in a cafe near-forgotten, transposed and duplicated, saved for the Treasury, spying glasses of school-boy dreams, lace and pubic-forest, a girl called Sharon who wouldn't come over, but sat and sat and laughed as heads asleep lolled and bounced, early afternon napping commuters with no control, spring-neck dogs from the back-windows of suburban limousines, gone on holidays, hung-over and vomitting, out at sea pitching up berley.
Television's like the missive you just wrote, it sits addressed, sealed down with some fine red wax and the crafted end of the Royal stamp to impress approval onto the envelope it could appear considerable, like a Magna Carta for the individual, the law of the lay between just you and the reader, to be sild into the communication machine and delivered post-haste, whilst unknowing tickled your bowels with fear of over-stepping yet again, of foisting too hard, opining too little of too much, or too much of an entity so paltry that only delusion might magnify it to be anything at all, time spent in company like a convenience, when convenient, otherwise forgotten, sporadic feeling for that something that was but isn't, that could be an age you were at, a well documented phase, passing, so slowly passing, incessant indecision, the choice never yours, consumerism based supply and demand, drinking it down, drinking it down like cheap wine, solitary wetting spreading to all horizons senses reeling.
Television's like an ingeminate performance, a memory coursing back into mind without cause or justification, it's averted, it's colour, it's black and white, it won't be gone, it gets to the curve before the lights on an unfinished freeway wrestling the wheel away from destruction, above the forest of refineries burning the the night to cinders, a hole in the sky a nice place to park, to take in the view, hits the barricade panting hard, taking to the lonely side of the street, visible, mobile, unexpected appearances for days on end, miraculous, sleight of hand, accessorised by dreams, baring twin souls, Achilles heel a birthmark above Mother's tread, circuitous gait of protection, spitting Holy water, tonic water, Devil's advocates at the dinner-table offering poison, the Beast's number tattooed on a bald pate, hallucination, Lucifer's effigy prone on a sea-weed compost, protected by love from needle-fine phallic aspirations, gone with the throw of a shroud, doors lockd, body securely harnessed against pain, sympathy, understanding, an addicts cry for help.
Television's like unplayed music in a head dancing limbs in spontaneous expression, curing ills, curare voices beamed via satellite, sat on shelves coated in beetle-back-shellac, metamorphosis only the family knows, bearing up to the ordeal at hand, stand trial, stand bare, stand on a stret corner and "Sing like a motherfucker!!", spruik for the whore of being eking deliberately toward just enough, she crawls to you, hands and knees bloodied, lacerated near to shreds, passages of broken glass, tooth and nail, fiction and fact, flaying the exposure, wiping away the residue to crystal clean, once, twice, three times to be beside, stooping, smiling, silver shining in beautification, amnesia befalling a world, word of mouth the new publicity, traversing the heavens, guiding stars for more wise men navigating global tours, loading cases for brief sojourns, VIP service, door to door, five star, devoid of patrimony, solo, slamming a big thirst near to death, submission hold "For you baby", devotion in solution.
Television's like a cramp in the calf, a bout of Delerium Tremens hours too soon, lugging a nicotine spike from a packet to lips, flaring the trachea, filling lungs with instant sedation, hungering clarity in xylophone hips and ribs, doleful eyes, spouse waiting, tendering expenditure, surviving on kind, in debt to favour after favour, grappling at tomes of blank verse, narrating, stroking, pausing, succumbing to mesmerism, spinning rotors on lounge-room ceilings splintering the hopes of hollow doughboys ugly in demise, so pretty to watch, Christians to the starving lions, unarmed children attempting to defend themselves against Mongol hordes, no man inside their Chinese wall, the Eastern-comfort cooked up neat riding ribbons of the circulatory to oblivion, exhorting the purge through pores and the eye of a cock some self-abuse, indiscriminate bastardisation, like journalism, victimisation, find a target, so easy, so alone, so much like shooting fish, they vault above a wave, extend wings, clay pigeons to hair trigger shot-guns intoning the need of colours to remain seperated by the panel of white, incandescence flashing, closing eyes for but an instanty in Heaven
Television's like a panacea for loneliness, it's on and noisy, and it's music, or it's the replay of the football, and your back's truned, head's down, fingers around a pen to a page, or hammering on those keys of another screen that shines silent but bright, ticking the seconds away in the "Right-side-top", this screen suffering your pride, the screen at your back priding itself on your acceptance, your total belief, your idolisation, get down on knees and face the cathode Mecca, "Channel 9", "Channel 7", "ABC, ABC", like a mantra, glowing Gods so colourful, so pure, so indestructible, Captain Scarletts by the score, talking heads in artificial triple haloes, voicing like shadows the language of the wholesome.
Television's like a telescope to another world dwelling in mirrored nescience of you curled up in blankets and hope, insight dawning by the second, of Kakadu, the Blue Danube, Riverdancing to the tune of info-tainment, celebrities sprouting, burning in fake flames then dying the death in a change of contract, a change in diet, a change in hairstyle or camera angle, hunting pieces for the cutting-room floor, green-room scenes, back-stage passes, late-night swearing brawlers, non-thinking drunken slurrers, "BOY", like it's out of focus or smeared with grease to becloud the edges, to screen the real, all made-up,chimera after chimera, piles of foundation on which to paint "Such a pretty face", opted for at random and sucked so far up to the lens it could be obsession, it could be a slide under the microscope, bacteria purling, amoeba swarmimg, two solids pressed so fixedly together how could anything survive?
Television's like a good place to hide, the world's oppression pets the windows and walls, poverty stirs up the dirt in the pantry, paranoia strolls the streets on the hunt for another victim, or to launch itself as saviour number 5 calls "Come to life", "Come to your senses", a consensus, shared opinions, a cabal en-masse, debating, questioning, "Why, what, who and where?", "What for?", reasons become irrelevant, goals forgotten, rabid fanaticism, the works of darkness, Princes falling foul of the Republic, philosophy borrowed over a season, Winter boring down, pneumatic-clutch drilling on in marathon, no Paris to savour from high on a parapet, no spouting tongue of drowning flame, no gentle cat stroking it's back and sides around calves, no refugees in need of sanctuary.
Television's like a dog that doesn't need exercising, doesn't neeed food or water, doesn't need the backyard cleared of daily reminders, strung all over like "Mad Woman's Shit", slung on the laundry line, feline telepath disclosing all, massive disruptions in domestic beatitude explainable in the early hours over comfort in satin-black, bolstered, bloody-eyed aand impoverished, the years to come too long to wait, parents and siblings doing nothing for something together, wicker-work fraying, scarring, secreting a cache beneath the boards, morning glory a barricade to idle voyeurs, pre-mature mourning, solace poised patiently on a front verandah pining for re-admittance, guilt free, innocent, satiated wanderlust, a brief re-aquaintance with the "Old" neighbourhood, palpating, smiling, screening the piercing with shade, early afternoon through the evening, into the darkets hours, collaposing, spent, exhaustion clawing at rasping lungs, limbs taut and strained, liquefied, coated in a film of sheer ecstacy.
Television's like a Lady on the train detoured from Melbourne with luck in a pair of 21 spotted cubes on her bicep rolling with the times, shrugging off just a vestige of the lack of an introduction, drinking "pots", Bear screaming the "Anti Sex" message, aliens pitched at the tether, palming bravado, silent and suffering the Winter's chill, a momento to take home, brief notes in rhyme of love in a saucer with change in a cafe near-forgotten, transposed and duplicated, saved for the Treasury, spying glasses of school-boy dreams, lace and pubic-forest, a girl called Sharon who wouldn't come over, but sat and sat and laughed as heads asleep lolled and bounced, early afternon napping commuters with no control, spring-neck dogs from the back-windows of suburban limousines, gone on holidays, hung-over and vomitting, out at sea pitching up berley.
Television's like the missive you just wrote, it sits addressed, sealed down with some fine red wax and the crafted end of the Royal stamp to impress approval onto the envelope it could appear considerable, like a Magna Carta for the individual, the law of the lay between just you and the reader, to be sild into the communication machine and delivered post-haste, whilst unknowing tickled your bowels with fear of over-stepping yet again, of foisting too hard, opining too little of too much, or too much of an entity so paltry that only delusion might magnify it to be anything at all, time spent in company like a convenience, when convenient, otherwise forgotten, sporadic feeling for that something that was but isn't, that could be an age you were at, a well documented phase, passing, so slowly passing, incessant indecision, the choice never yours, consumerism based supply and demand, drinking it down, drinking it down like cheap wine, solitary wetting spreading to all horizons senses reeling.
Television's like an ingeminate performance, a memory coursing back into mind without cause or justification, it's averted, it's colour, it's black and white, it won't be gone, it gets to the curve before the lights on an unfinished freeway wrestling the wheel away from destruction, above the forest of refineries burning the the night to cinders, a hole in the sky a nice place to park, to take in the view, hits the barricade panting hard, taking to the lonely side of the street, visible, mobile, unexpected appearances for days on end, miraculous, sleight of hand, accessorised by dreams, baring twin souls, Achilles heel a birthmark above Mother's tread, circuitous gait of protection, spitting Holy water, tonic water, Devil's advocates at the dinner-table offering poison, the Beast's number tattooed on a bald pate, hallucination, Lucifer's effigy prone on a sea-weed compost, protected by love from needle-fine phallic aspirations, gone with the throw of a shroud, doors lockd, body securely harnessed against pain, sympathy, understanding, an addicts cry for help.
Television's like unplayed music in a head dancing limbs in spontaneous expression, curing ills, curare voices beamed via satellite, sat on shelves coated in beetle-back-shellac, metamorphosis only the family knows, bearing up to the ordeal at hand, stand trial, stand bare, stand on a stret corner and "Sing like a motherfucker!!", spruik for the whore of being eking deliberately toward just enough, she crawls to you, hands and knees bloodied, lacerated near to shreds, passages of broken glass, tooth and nail, fiction and fact, flaying the exposure, wiping away the residue to crystal clean, once, twice, three times to be beside, stooping, smiling, silver shining in beautification, amnesia befalling a world, word of mouth the new publicity, traversing the heavens, guiding stars for more wise men navigating global tours, loading cases for brief sojourns, VIP service, door to door, five star, devoid of patrimony, solo, slamming a big thirst near to death, submission hold "For you baby", devotion in solution.
Television's like a cramp in the calf, a bout of Delerium Tremens hours too soon, lugging a nicotine spike from a packet to lips, flaring the trachea, filling lungs with instant sedation, hungering clarity in xylophone hips and ribs, doleful eyes, spouse waiting, tendering expenditure, surviving on kind, in debt to favour after favour, grappling at tomes of blank verse, narrating, stroking, pausing, succumbing to mesmerism, spinning rotors on lounge-room ceilings splintering the hopes of hollow doughboys ugly in demise, so pretty to watch, Christians to the starving lions, unarmed children attempting to defend themselves against Mongol hordes, no man inside their Chinese wall, the Eastern-comfort cooked up neat riding ribbons of the circulatory to oblivion, exhorting the purge through pores and the eye of a cock some self-abuse, indiscriminate bastardisation, like journalism, victimisation, find a target, so easy, so alone, so much like shooting fish, they vault above a wave, extend wings, clay pigeons to hair trigger shot-guns intoning the need of colours to remain seperated by the panel of white, incandescence flashing, closing eyes for but an instanty in Heaven
Sleep long and well my hardy friend for tomorrow you will die
I'll slice the meat right off your bones, stilled eyeballs will not cry.
Fingers plucked from hands turned red they clasped the noseless face
back from beyond at your beckoned call I dwell among your race.
The sickle and pain I carry, you go silent at my name
for I am of your creation hidden secrets are to blame.
The heartles ones who know me well tread cautiously at my side
to cause you misery then death would swell my chest with pride.
I leave my mark, the burning scar, that forms upon your mind
because I am in you as you are in me two as one we are combined.
Without you I have no love, without me you'll know no pain
I have felt this a million times before and I'll feel this way again.
Feel warmth inside your chest
the way I know your touch
I'm the dryness on your lips
as if reality is too much.
They look so good in their modern suits, all leather and silver rings
they sloganize, their hair they dye, they're told to do these things.
A way of worship, to look the same, as the ones they've seen displayed
in magazines, on tv screens, there are fortunes to be made.
The slow march in to the quick push out, the latest thing on the block
one step ahead is the coolest place, the scene changes round the clock.
Tomorrow's trash are todays all knowing icons with a song that missed the beat
the wrong brand of shoes or a hair-cut change, their posters strewn across the street.
Forgotten it seems with the passing time, how short it seems their memories
so easily replaced with the next in line and the next in line again please.
A simple o.d on the tv screen
brain gone dead with loss.
The magnetism of the endless vision.
The world unseen through windows.
I saw the smile that put a lump in my pants
felt the touch of the tingle on my scalp
the swollen tongue in the desert dry mouth.
It's like I've fallen in love again.
The almost paranoid need to be in her company, to feel her near
I know how many steps it took to get from there to here.
The stance
the shoe size she takes.
It's like I'm in love again.
My insecurity that attacks my heart-felt trust.
The scent of her
the taste of the way she kisses
her relaxation in my company as if she feels at ease
I think we're in love again.
Shake the hand that shook the world
twice.
And I touched the hand of the once great man
and his vice.
When walls came closing in
with their needles and their pins
the two were found alone
soon sweat-soaked to the bone.
So I've heard
Through the door a world close minded
by Eastern-comfort they've been blinded
ancient legends are re-lived
with each drop of themselves they give.
So I've heard
One the God and one to worship
both had hardly felt the pin prick
sensed the burning need inside
desire to share one life.
So I've heard
Now with business done they've left
the conspiracy no-one suspects
this latest memory to each his own
will it taunt when they're alone
So I've heard.
Once I saw them slip away
the unheard words that people say
thoughts held tight in minds unsure
public guilt will know no cure.
The truth unheard.
I'll slice the meat right off your bones, stilled eyeballs will not cry.
Fingers plucked from hands turned red they clasped the noseless face
back from beyond at your beckoned call I dwell among your race.
The sickle and pain I carry, you go silent at my name
for I am of your creation hidden secrets are to blame.
The heartles ones who know me well tread cautiously at my side
to cause you misery then death would swell my chest with pride.
I leave my mark, the burning scar, that forms upon your mind
because I am in you as you are in me two as one we are combined.
Without you I have no love, without me you'll know no pain
I have felt this a million times before and I'll feel this way again.
Feel warmth inside your chest
the way I know your touch
I'm the dryness on your lips
as if reality is too much.
They look so good in their modern suits, all leather and silver rings
they sloganize, their hair they dye, they're told to do these things.
A way of worship, to look the same, as the ones they've seen displayed
in magazines, on tv screens, there are fortunes to be made.
The slow march in to the quick push out, the latest thing on the block
one step ahead is the coolest place, the scene changes round the clock.
Tomorrow's trash are todays all knowing icons with a song that missed the beat
the wrong brand of shoes or a hair-cut change, their posters strewn across the street.
Forgotten it seems with the passing time, how short it seems their memories
so easily replaced with the next in line and the next in line again please.
A simple o.d on the tv screen
brain gone dead with loss.
The magnetism of the endless vision.
The world unseen through windows.
I saw the smile that put a lump in my pants
felt the touch of the tingle on my scalp
the swollen tongue in the desert dry mouth.
It's like I've fallen in love again.
The almost paranoid need to be in her company, to feel her near
I know how many steps it took to get from there to here.
The stance
the shoe size she takes.
It's like I'm in love again.
My insecurity that attacks my heart-felt trust.
The scent of her
the taste of the way she kisses
her relaxation in my company as if she feels at ease
I think we're in love again.
Shake the hand that shook the world
twice.
And I touched the hand of the once great man
and his vice.
When walls came closing in
with their needles and their pins
the two were found alone
soon sweat-soaked to the bone.
So I've heard
Through the door a world close minded
by Eastern-comfort they've been blinded
ancient legends are re-lived
with each drop of themselves they give.
So I've heard
One the God and one to worship
both had hardly felt the pin prick
sensed the burning need inside
desire to share one life.
So I've heard
Now with business done they've left
the conspiracy no-one suspects
this latest memory to each his own
will it taunt when they're alone
So I've heard.
Once I saw them slip away
the unheard words that people say
thoughts held tight in minds unsure
public guilt will know no cure.
The truth unheard.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
An infant howls
Summer's night is hot
a life below their eyes.
Door bangs shut then open
attention is grabbed
who is a star to whom?
Woman on the footpath with a plate
it looks like corn chips
no offer of oranges today.
Whore with red-light
both bathed yellow
tempted not in orange-wrap.
I stared at the eyes of a stone duck
black painted pools of nothing
and saw as much as it.
If I wore funny hats
or swam with sharks
would I be a better candidate
than some-one whose sleeve was adorned with hearts.
Regret might want to swallow me up
but on days like today
when it rains
I'd rather be here than juggling my room around leaks in the ceiling.
On a good day I can see all the channels
with Tarzan lost in the jungle amidst warm rain
the Civil War rages on into episode 5
with Johnny Reb recalcitrant
with leg raised and lapels clutched arrogantly in his fists.
The tennis goes backwards and forwards over a net
and then over again almost interminably.
The yachts bows dig deep into the swell, impelled by a breeze.
Aboriginal grandchildren a century on talk of grandmother's pride
long dead warriors pose in a show of immortality.
The tennis goes on
backwards and forwards.
Promises of riches can't sway a wife away from a husband whose only want is an ice-cold beer.
Beautiful country won't make a home to one who fell beside another
whose poetry remembers it all.
And the tennis goes on
though now they rest beneath umbrellas and drink at water as icy cold as Tarzan's compatriots beer could ever have been.
From a crow's view the yacht cleaves it's way through a swell that runs only slight.
Cavalry is counted on for intelligence
as if horses told it all
supposedly alright like brand new wagons
while mine rests here all but 5 years old
on a good day
when I can see alll the channels.
Summer's night is hot
a life below their eyes.
Door bangs shut then open
attention is grabbed
who is a star to whom?
Woman on the footpath with a plate
it looks like corn chips
no offer of oranges today.
Whore with red-light
both bathed yellow
tempted not in orange-wrap.
I stared at the eyes of a stone duck
black painted pools of nothing
and saw as much as it.
If I wore funny hats
or swam with sharks
would I be a better candidate
than some-one whose sleeve was adorned with hearts.
Regret might want to swallow me up
but on days like today
when it rains
I'd rather be here than juggling my room around leaks in the ceiling.
On a good day I can see all the channels
with Tarzan lost in the jungle amidst warm rain
the Civil War rages on into episode 5
with Johnny Reb recalcitrant
with leg raised and lapels clutched arrogantly in his fists.
The tennis goes backwards and forwards over a net
and then over again almost interminably.
The yachts bows dig deep into the swell, impelled by a breeze.
Aboriginal grandchildren a century on talk of grandmother's pride
long dead warriors pose in a show of immortality.
The tennis goes on
backwards and forwards.
Promises of riches can't sway a wife away from a husband whose only want is an ice-cold beer.
Beautiful country won't make a home to one who fell beside another
whose poetry remembers it all.
And the tennis goes on
though now they rest beneath umbrellas and drink at water as icy cold as Tarzan's compatriots beer could ever have been.
From a crow's view the yacht cleaves it's way through a swell that runs only slight.
Cavalry is counted on for intelligence
as if horses told it all
supposedly alright like brand new wagons
while mine rests here all but 5 years old
on a good day
when I can see alll the channels.
They lurch in the wake of early morning traffic
nights spent with backs to disused cardboard that once protected stoves and combustion heaters.
She's unprotected, legs skyward, sex bared for all the world to see
and there is no world beneath this mausoleum of a carpark
there is no world in her mind
and he belabours away fully protected
all seven inches of the hardest man can get.
She'd like to dream some enjoyment but business is booming
away in her veins
away in her loins
away on the stench in his breath
through the clenched teeth
as if this is an act of terror or hate come to roost
because it was just too easy.
nights spent with backs to disused cardboard that once protected stoves and combustion heaters.
She's unprotected, legs skyward, sex bared for all the world to see
and there is no world beneath this mausoleum of a carpark
there is no world in her mind
and he belabours away fully protected
all seven inches of the hardest man can get.
She'd like to dream some enjoyment but business is booming
away in her veins
away in her loins
away on the stench in his breath
through the clenched teeth
as if this is an act of terror or hate come to roost
because it was just too easy.
Involuntary chastity like a belt from the bottle
a swaying blind-eyed attempt at nothing
drooping hopes
such unfulfilled desires
sipping from the necks of chilled, willing victims
diluting vision, bringing ease that focuses to bravado.
Liquid nerves of iron men
steeled city women.
Spider on slender thread creates no threat to those flies
whose eyes
so well faceted in phosphorescent purples and greens
now beheaded beneath my deft fingers
between the me
and the essence of such short existance set free.
a swaying blind-eyed attempt at nothing
drooping hopes
such unfulfilled desires
sipping from the necks of chilled, willing victims
diluting vision, bringing ease that focuses to bravado.
Liquid nerves of iron men
steeled city women.
Spider on slender thread creates no threat to those flies
whose eyes
so well faceted in phosphorescent purples and greens
now beheaded beneath my deft fingers
between the me
and the essence of such short existance set free.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Silhouette against a brooding sky
ebon raven
a Karmic death pigeon homing all grief.
That night when the sky cracks
dark foreboding in the air
through crystal window who sees destiny on the wing.
European tourist mirrored
a juice stop doorway
so perfectly perfect.
Candles bristle on tables
red hair sings and swirls
kindles my mind.
Swapped heated argument
so otherwise to a kiss
the mouths of lovers.
Out in my courtyard
dilapidated white lattice
just how I feel.
Paint flakes away the Sun
paling pendulous
a backyard Summer.
The clamour of man's machines
easily vandalised silence
Mother Nature mourns.
Grey cotton shoulders
cigarette laughs
do not dampen dreams.
Broken teeth kiss
so drunkenly here
age deliquesces away to years.
Heavy tread, an empty street
so lost in aggression
I walk removed again.
Empty glasses
counters filled with splinters
the time has come.
ebon raven
a Karmic death pigeon homing all grief.
That night when the sky cracks
dark foreboding in the air
through crystal window who sees destiny on the wing.
European tourist mirrored
a juice stop doorway
so perfectly perfect.
Candles bristle on tables
red hair sings and swirls
kindles my mind.
Swapped heated argument
so otherwise to a kiss
the mouths of lovers.
Out in my courtyard
dilapidated white lattice
just how I feel.
Paint flakes away the Sun
paling pendulous
a backyard Summer.
The clamour of man's machines
easily vandalised silence
Mother Nature mourns.
Grey cotton shoulders
cigarette laughs
do not dampen dreams.
Broken teeth kiss
so drunkenly here
age deliquesces away to years.
Heavy tread, an empty street
so lost in aggression
I walk removed again.
Empty glasses
counters filled with splinters
the time has come.
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