It comes from all directions
Rae Desmond Jones
the foam on the beerglass rising
before it spills
down your chest, seeking out
your languid generous heart,
that smile on the flabby face of the bouncer
as he knocks the cheeky little bald guy
to the floor then kicks him
in the nuts,
… O yes, you leave, but
that toothless pantsless woman
in the lane lifts her dress as you cruise past
then opens her hollow mouth
(as in a vision a 1963 chevrolet creeps
away slowly on stumps bleeding petrol
like a skewered turtle & you drop
a cigarette lighter in the trail
when a wave of crushed glass
rolls towards you melting
as the tarmac rips open to gurgle fire
on smouldering tonsils of
A delicate sniffer of flowers
He weeps at poetry & music & bad movies.
He is rumoured to be a little queer,
Yet enjoys the company of women
& believes that is his business.
Never cared about money & is often broke,
But manages to survive (so far).
Worked in steel foundries three times
& found the experience significant.
Worked as a cleaner a clerk a factory hand
& found the experience insignificant.
Worked in the Commonwealth Employment
Service, when there was a CES,
& got some people jobs.
He would be a Marxist if he could be –
He is much too irrational.
He is one of the few writers to be
A mayor of anywhere &
Still succeeded in being a pain in the arse
He was significant in saving two suburbs
Which have now become gentrified,
& wonders about it.
He doesn’t like applying for grants
Although he regards himself as a socialist.
His Father worked in a mine:
He heard the earth grumble &
Never wanted to go there.
Now he wants to write something
Before he dies
That will explode.
Self-Portrait, with Bee
In all this long back garden of vegetables
and blossoming roses, a fat healthy thistle grows
sturdy, spikey and green. Atop one
of three green bulbs on reaching stalks, a colour
bursts through, a colour like light purple or dark pink –
a first blossom among the green. It is so vibrant
in this autumn sunlight it attracts a bee
who lands and buzzes, turns around
to another angle and buzzes again, and repeats
this manoeuvre a few times, specifically three,
then flies off. I am standing here, watching,
as my wife talks about what we should do
to the garden, how the cat over the fence
is crapping in our vegetable patch and not covering
its own shit well enough. Wow, I say, wow,
look at this. And she turns to see me fascinated
with a thistle bush and its attendant bee.
Yes, I left it there, she comments, I know
the funny things you like, thistles and things.
Good Friday, 29/3/2013.
In the forest
in the forest we say
listen to the silence
it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop
and all the time
the Rose crowned fruit dove and
the Wompoo pigeon
call to us:
and the Bell birds
sound their lone clear note
high above the spotted gums
and the white cockatoos,
trapeze artists of the sky,
scold us as we walk in
Listen, even the butterflies
make a noise
in the silence.
My coat hurling around my body my calves all my
doubts Hair whipped into snarls Tawny thistles
scratched into ochre flats The wind-vexed
farmhouse crouched hay-dry A single rankle of
geraniums tacked upright with a choke of chicken
wire A washed white porch My knocking plucked
away Collar and tie under overalls been-to-church
smiles His snaking hand guides me across the river
Matthew John Davies
Bought and sold are the reins of taped encounters
To the floundering of pillows and Bar-X found
In the crush of a doona’s sick sigh
The crevices sought out/in
Their purpose: gainsaying
To the weary, the known
And the return back
To unpeeled skin