Rae Desmond Jones



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






of Rae Desmond Jones




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.






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.






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.




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