In shadows

In glimpses

 

An intuition

A sensation

 

We cannot see it

But we think perhaps

 

We notice

A quality of light

 

A touch of wind

An inner movement

 

These suggestions

Are everywhere

 

Reminders that

God

 

Is not designed

For us

 

We are designed

For God

 

Our task

To carry grace

 

To be vessels

For the pouring

 

Of the spirit

We are fragile

 

But

In ourselves

 

Unimportant

Fear

 

Is our great encumbrance

Our fear for ourselves

 

Which is like fearing for the air

In a storm

 

Come lightning

Strike

 

 

 

Let’s have no irritable grasping after reason.

– John Keats as quoted by Gary Snyder

 

(1)

 

A young boy

Thinking of Baudelaire, how one night

For such is his wont

Looking out over the valley, for no

Bean plants to the knees

Quietly that, through the rain, the

Dust in the cups and glasses, dust in shoes

A message on a mobile phone

Ironising everything I think or do

Fatter, live

And how they have brought her at last

Several imaginary exit wounds

And that car-thief friend who treats him like a brother,

On the mattress in the shed, the day

Will not leave this house

And our dreams with them, all the ten towns down.

Just like the sea

Reappear. I am

 

(3)

 

In the back lanes and alleyways

Build a house and it draws them around

People are talking

In exile in Siberia, 1938: I’m

In the crevices of buildings

Professor of Australian Literature and preparing

Disturbance of the leaves dislodging them, they fall

Sugar glider, are endangered and rarely seen

Like some huge vessel

They can seem a kind of sluggish centaur

So full of ghosts

To watch the point of my torchlight

Diners are sidling out of Tran’s Thainese

Taking aim at Jenny in the centre of the yard

Wonders which to eat tonight

And all they could do is stare

Sluggish with plenitude

As his victim was on her way to the cooking pot. The book

Her oblivious and

To have been broken from the start. Saddled,

Yelping and whining all night

Now is how I

Forest behind them, starting from the gate

We heard one night a caterwauling from somewhere there; I guess

 

 

studious art endeavours

studious art endeavours

 

 

“The line does not end where the arm ends,

but where the thought leaves the line.”

— Leopold Museum, Vienna

 

As the lapidarian eye placed a caress

above the stocking end line, casting about

in the cascading thought for blue shiners,

fish that reflected lacy signatures in those

imprints of yearn falling away from

that skin fold of studious art endeavours,

where button breasts diamante their way

out across masquerading candle smoke,

posing out of love or money who cares –

for the confetti drop that springs the trap

on the shattering diamond light subsiding

in the river aching its way from wrists,

the window knows the feint in reappraisal

a side of palm to make good the merged lovers,

gemstones cut into each other so no edge

separated them from the jeweller’s intent.

 

 

from the thirty sixth floor
we watched
below on the river
an algal bloom of pleasure cruisers
a swarm invade the foreshore
the pinprick sparkle of fire twirlers
spin overture to detonation
when river land was drenched
red white and blue
sky dyed green and gold

we sat
in the boss’s chair
on a greetings from down under
koala cushion
perched in the dark
griffons
angels
gods

out on the street
cops held a young man down
cold handcuffs snap as
hands pressed his face
knees pressed his chest
into concrete
which covers Yagan’s country

across the once wetland road
among wraiths of paperbark and she-oak
his family women gash their breasts
with sharpened stones
continue the keening.

Australia Day 2014

reflect

reflect

 

I’m sitting in a chair

A chair in a room
A room in an apartment
An apartment on a floor
A floor of a building

A building on a street
A street on a block
A block in a neighborhood
A neighborhood of a city

A city in a county
A county of a state
A state in a region
A region of a country

A country on a continent
A continent in a hemisphere
A hemisphere of a planet
A planet in a solar system

A solar system in a galaxy
A galaxy in a universe
A universe of matter
15 % observable

85 % dark.

 

 

It’s curtains for our Button
Her shag-pile carpet fur
concealing a spinal lupus loping wild

We don’t know when its lope
will stride into a run
and cut her legs from under her again

The rot’s set in.
It’s no use denying
Nor that she is part of our interior design.

She was never a new broom,
Just family interconnective tissue.
Did she teach us how to grow our own?

Strike up the band.

Strike up the band.

 

Dieter & I, dirty old men stalking

the Cyclone Sisters. Embryonic certitude/servitude

our forte, all we ask is to be piggybacked through

the next century, hocus-pocus, locus-solace etc.

with an option on gobble (snouts in the trough) lest,

undone by hunger, we abjure Our Every

Accomplishment, such as it/they is/are. Anyway

if our information is correct, that the fix is in it’s just

a matter of the right palliative to do the job: get

those cross-dressers off the street they’re scaring away

the tourists, the only source left, needless to say,

of our revenue (to pay the police, etc.). Is this

the best we can do – off the streets with nowhere to go?

Some decorum please. Why not hire a Santa, each miss

in his lap for two minutes (behave yourselves) & sent off

with a ticket to ride. Who cares where – Salamanca,

Lusaka… Going my way? Yes, obviously, why else

would I hoist this fag (this in reference to a ride I took –

hitchhiking – with a man who kept asking me to feel

his thigh, which, as it turned out, was made of wood,

artificial, lost in a war). Dress rehearsal for

the niche we’ll occupy when they’re done with us,

crammed in with some obscure saint Excuse me

can I borrow your halo I’m trying to impress

the girl next door, Jane, who I once saw naked

in her bedroom window (but, alas, only once, that

performance never repeated). If she isn’t dead

she’s a grandmother now. Is it time to strike up the band? –

When the saints come marching in. Is it time

(you might well ask) to stuff suppositories

in our ears? Depends, Deiter, if we’re talking

tragedy or farce, & by the way what’s

your favorite flic & don’t say Before Night Falls

because it won’t wash, it won’t do for our forthcoming

anointment by His Holiness Gustave the Good (who,

by the way, got off with a slap of the wrist). You want

I should buy you a new freak? – Belinda past

her use-by date & what with the GBS (Giddy-up

Boy Wonder) factor in play now we’ll never be taken

for your average working Joes. Too bad, it

was just beginning to get interesting, the known sleaze

isolated from the not-known it could with some

justification have been said (finally) that cranberry tithes

were never meant for the likes of us.

 

 

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