reminders of home

won’t you remind me, please
of that burning glow of comfort
to one side of my face?

or how, when i open my eyes, and look
to the sky, the flickering tails of the flames
court the stars to shoot?

yes,
my southern blanket sky’s revive is well
overdue

turned ear to the bubbling brook
melding cicada hum and cracking
eucalypt, she’s brought me home

yes, i’m home in her

lover’s poured billy tea
i called six hearts, and play my Jack
and sip, chardonnay in plastic flutes

won’t you remind me, please
of that burning glow of comfort
of embers, and jaffle irons?

deep reverberance [draft.1]

he laughed with deep reverberance, then spat in the dirt.
with enunciated clarity, he spoke,

i shall seek no forgiveness, for that which i have no regret.

a sense of knowing washed through me.
here i stand with the Accuser.
his wet breath was stale with contempt.
alone, with my lowest nature,
my sin, ira

the sweet smell of regret in the air was mine.
with the next blow, again, he spoke,

what you call my sin, I call my redemption.

there were no tears shed, for a third blow.

hot murky brown

my head would throb
(incessant)
o’ but to drown in the hot, murky, brown

here’s where you close your eyes, and
your head snaps, back, and your senses snap, back
and you’re thrust, you thrust
back, and
(suddenly)
you’ve snapped, back, and you’re
thrust, forward, and life’
s in fast, forward, and
(suddenly)
you’re half, way, there, and
you’ve no, way, back, and
you’re drowned,
(shout, aloud)
in the hot, murky, brown

o’ but they smirk
(and you smirk)
for the rich, and the safe, and you
drown in the hot, murky, brown

i am my Own

for every night that i lie awake,
and worry,
and my anxiety swashes across my chest,
and my fingers tingle,
and my certainty sinks

there is an embrace (oh my, won’t you

give me more,
bring me more,
send me more,
to my swelling hands, over-sensate

i can take it, i can take you
down

i am my Own
God’s will

throw your arms around me)

Blush

“What do you call that colour?”
“Blush.”
“Interesting, I’ve never heard of that colour before.”
“You only asked me what I call it.”
“Oh, what do other people call it?”
“Ruby.”
“I think prefer blush.”
“That’s why I call it blush.”

A long and silent pause follows.

“My hands are still tied.”
“Yes, I know how to tie knots.”
“It hurts a little.”
“I must have tied the knots very well then.”

Cathy sighs, and the room is silent once more.

“What do you call that colour again?”
“Blush.”
“Yes, that’s it, blush.”
“What do you really want to ask me Cathy?”
“Could you untie me now?”
“I could untie you, but it’s not time.”
“Blush you say?”
“Yes Cathy, for the ninth time, I call it blush.”
“But other people call it ruby?”

David walks across the grey stone floor to where Cathy is seated. He slaps her cheek, hard, with his open hand. A loud crack echoes off the dark, windowless walls.

“I call that ruby.”

Until yesterday

The rain was perfect for a waltz yesterday.
I could smell it coming, and I raced outside.
The first drops hit me as I took off my shirt.
My skin tingled at the chill.
You laughed at me.
Now let me tell you why I’m free.

I once met a lady at the sea-side.
Her name was Bethany.
At the time, she was nineteen, and quite crazy.
She used to wear the same dress, every day.
It was green, with white flowers.
She would walk across the sand to the water’s edge,
where she would spin around,
looking up into the sky,
and get so dizzy that she’d fall over,
into the waves.
She would lie in the wet sand for a long time.
People would walk past her and laugh.

Bethany told me, one day while we ate hamburgers,
that she liked it when people laughed at her,
because it meant that they might not realise,
that she was laughing at them.
I never knew what she meant, until yesterday.
The day that you laughed at me,
dancing with my crazy Bethany,
in the summer rain.

Bethany disappeared a year ago.
I miss her.
Now I’m nineteen, and quite crazy.

silent clear-way hours

exhaust my way
in Bukowski
digging
elbows on knees and head
in hands, i drift
with a sullen tempo

my daughter will tell you why, with her eyes
that it matters
that you answer correctly;
should we celebrate the bread
or the jam?

forget language
and take some time to consider, instead
how you feel about the words
just the words
now,
underline it for future ref(lect)erence

these
were silent clear-way hours
well spent
sitting slouched, in prickly heat
with my four fruits
jam, and bread

unlikely harbour [draft.1]

there’s diesel dirty coffee and surrounds that swill.

an industrial belch in my left ear, clashes with the white wash’s
high pitched and fuzzy hum.

it partly erodes and partly peels back the last
five days.

I joke about French cigarettes, and you
joke about leaving me
to my shabby knit hat and musing.

there’s a napkin, but I avoid the cliche and instead
press it to my lips. there’s been others before me, as it reads,
“the one with the aroma”

indeed

and now, to brighten my palette
we walk to the ice-creamery
for blood orange sorbet and passionfruit.

in the middle of grey

it is all here, in the morning’s crisp
just as light awakens

the clouds retract, to a point
back and away, to a point
beyond my view, to a hidden
point’s horizon

there are boys with a fire
a bright and lucid tangerine flammering
strangely
it reminds me of penny turtles
and eucalypts

i find myself
and find myself
wondering

if that cloud’s black makes the grey
seem brighter
or if the grey sky, deepens the black
and makes it more bulbous, like envious ink

i find myself
and find myself
wondering

if the boys with the fire
are frightening
and has the sun
been frightened from rising?

yet
it is all respiteful, and
my heart pounds a little softer

the boys with the fire are either
latent criminals
or pro-surfers whose shoes i will buy when i’m old
and i reclaim my youth
with my grey man’s money

a grey man
made bright by the black bulbous earth
yet shrinking
to a point, retracting
beyond my view, to a hidden
point’s horizon

my heart pounds, a little
more

The hallelujah sea

No, the sea is not a day dream. There is no plink and tinkle of a music box in the white wash, splashing over playing children’s toes. There is no florid turquoise and aquamarine shimmering from the sun, as its light skips across the swell. And just when I think that, yes, the sweet salty cologne that wafts off the waves is real, I open my eyes, and breathe the fantastic truth.

The green is unripened and sour. The crash and bash and smash of the wave’s storm saturates my ears. The light is morose, as mournful as any deaths day. The salt stings my eyes, scratches my skin and I am alone.

So beautifully alone, hallelujah, I am the luckiest man alive.

nada

there’s a new kidd in town, and he is careful
with retrospect. and words, yes, with words and meaning.
ask me if you’d like to know more, about
the waxing and waning and whining
and how this inning had stretched

taken own advice, with air’s sustenance
with hips jinked, here i land

forget everything i say, literalcy is a currency
inflated from the expunged, from behind a mask

fin