It is unacceptable
Rae Desmond Jones
On their mobile phones
The authorities pass judgement
In the darkness of his truths
He waits for morning
There is no message
He repeats again & again
Shadow words form
Through the stone walls
There must be a text
The universe is not empty
He no longer speaks
& waits for the sun to rise
Above the stunted hills
The old friend
Rae Desmond Jones
Rae Desmond Jones
you sense him as you walk
without thinking along a busy street
when whatever it is that should concern you
leaves you & you are alone
except for him
he whispers nothing
but when he is around words happen.
there is music & your body dances
– your breathing deepens.
he has been gone a long time,
your warm quiet friend –
because you hadn’t heard you had forgotten
Hot summer on the flat top
Rae Desmond Jones
at midnight when the sky is clear on top of Ashfield Mall
& the stars line up to watch with serious unblinking eyes
three guys in a Toyota Hilux with a carapace of hard plastic
roll up the ramp & turn left to scatter the strays with trolleys stacked
(detergent coca cola toilet paper & stuff,)
still coming out of the lift
the guys perform an elegant figure 8 as a mist of smoke rubber
& gasoline rolls through the white bone moonlight
then they stop.
the driver stays in the cabin as two young guys with beards
climb out to lie flat on the cooling skull of the earth
they stare back at the stars & pass a joint
Ghazals
of Rae Desmond Jones
X
a fair woman behind her fan
interrogates our string quartet as they start to tune.
the Sahara draws a bow slowly across strings of air,
a thick drone of abundance.
guests arrive yet they do not eat
although we have laid a princely table.
bubbles exhale from dry sparkling wine,
her honey light hair.
why are there no lovers?
who is that stranger sawing tent ropes?
a peacock screams from our garden edge:
two lions watch from the road.
XXVI
onions steeped in brown vinegar,
voluptuous bottoms pressed against glass.
tomatoes express that colour
from embarrassment at our behaviour.
pineapples jump up to the ceiling
to enliven a flaccid un-sprung Sun.
figs hang in rows with stems dripping cream –
brown scrotums of aging men.
dried apricots erotic gleam,
vulvas slippery with their lust.
potatoes sit shrouded by the dirt we came from
to remind us to be humble.
beans that are soaked in tins
drop drowned & sobbing on our plate.
think gently of your fruits & veges,
they might be your grandparent’s souls.
XXXII
a line of ash blondes puff out their cheeks
& seven trumpets wail.
so the boy with a ponytail
allows a cheeky oboe to kiss his lips.
five double basses pluck delicately
to add a sombre touch.
the conductor leans forward,
his fingers stroke the border of silence.
scheherazade dances as she speaks,
the Sultan’s body rises to the ceiling.
