Sunday, October 25, 2009

Remember -23/07/2008

(draft -25/10/2009)

She smokes a lot,
Maybe too much,
She knows this,
-you don’t need to tell her,
Wouldn’t do either of you any good.

Not in a talkative mood,
Barely says two words to you,
Could dig yourself into trouble,
If you push this.

Lines on her face that aren’t enough sleep,
Showing hours in the day she slept through alone,
Not necessarily by herself,
Just… alone.

Sunburn that turned straight into freckles,
Whiles her skin remains pale,
Hair golden-brown,
Like tarnished jewellery,
Nice if she looked after it better,
Which she doesn’t of course,
There isn’t ever enough time.

Blowing cigarette smoke out her mouth,
Like it’s pushing away every lame excuse you could make,
Expels it with a slight whistle,
Not sure if that’s sounded to bother you,
…But it does.

The shirt she’s wearing doesn’t fit well,
Eyes out the window,
Turned away from you,
Locked on something in the blue sky.

Can’t remember what colour her eyes actually are,
And that’s sad.

Because you know somehow,
That it might help,

If you could remember.




Thursday, October 22, 2009

On Romulus by Christmas -09/08/2009


On the carpet.

Hold you down,
Stretch you out,
You’re all mine,
Body is mine,
Mind is mine.

Make you sweat,
Limbs quiver,
Lips tremble,
Limits approach.

Outside world drops away,
Ceiling and floor dissolve,
Replaced by a quickening pulse,
Muscle strains,
Your groans,
Gasps for air.

Sensations undescribe you,
As it goes on and on,
Forget your name,
Age and place,
Taking you to the centre,
Of yourself,

I am there,
Focusing only on...

This workout.




Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Turbulence and Other Unfinished Business -21/10/2009


"So do you know how I feel, tonight..."

-Saul Williams, Wine

There’s never been Saul Williams out this far,
I must be the first person to play his CD,
In Narre Warren, down the Princes highway,
Cruising around in a borrowed car,
I’m almost certain,
This is the only time,
That 'wine' will be heard out here.

As my colleagues continue to thumb through,
Their well-thumbed-through thesaurus’,
For more riddles for the same few poets to moo along too,
I see my stage space sooner or later being replaced,
By pokie machines, and I don’t even know if I’ll mourn,
But I won’t… masticate.

I’ll just wine,
In a borrowed car performing petroleum injection in six valves,
Itself on a dwindling supply of borrowed time,
Fueled on old bones from older seas,
Under a sky too big to hold anything as small as this,
In its favour.

And it may not feel like it now,
But these are the good times,
The only ones we have to spare.

Putting my father on a plane again,
After the drop off,
Wondering how many more times I can,
Before one of these car seats will remain empty.

Don’t know when the last time I get to hug my mother,
Is going to happen,
Only that it will happen,
And will only happen once,
So I’ll have to hug her like it is that time,
Each time,
Simultaneously hoping it it's not.

And standing here now hoping it hasn’t happened already.

Because I still need… to need,
In spite the three hours just gone,
That will stretch out to the rest of tonight ahead,
Without me saying a word to another human being,
I still need tomorrow to emerge from plane turbulence,
For me,
For my father,
For my arms,
Around my and every other person’s mother too.

Last time my plane hit a patch of turbulence,
It was above Brisbane,
The woman sitting next to me,
Grabbed the moan in her throat too late,
And I heard it,
I laughed my arse off,
Feeling utterly alive,
Happy enough with what I have had here,
That I felt immediately ready to die,
Without wishing to.

It was only after I landed,
That I got scared,
And it’s only after these thoughts had become real words,
That I knew I was wrong,
It was only in recalling what I’d previously heard,
That I listened to it.

The sound of the human being next to me,
Who simply did-not-want,
Every single thing she had done,
This week,
This year,
To be the last one of those.

I hear Saul Williams wine,
And I think about... everything,
Everything I'm yet to put in the face of those other fuckin' poets,
Everything I have not loved enough,
Loathed enough,
Seen enough,
And I have not shit-eaten-fucked-thought-talked-fought-fled and bled,

I want what the womans turbulence-induced moan wanted,
And the firm grasp of my father's shaken hand,

I want more.

So if this somehow were to end up,
Being my last poem,
That I never intended it to be,
That I ate every dish,
Sung every song,
And faced every face,
Savouring and satisfied,
Without staying in a state of satisfaction.

Still saving space for desert after each meal,
Living expectantly,

With room for a little bit more.




Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Home Boy –20/10/2009

(originally written circa June/July 2008)

And when the dust finally unsettled,

When my unwritten epilogues,
Started staring competitions,
With my unstated intentions…
Rocking the liberty bell until it broke,
As I bottomed-out the bell curve with all my back paddling,
It was time.

And while time saved stitching in zip locker bags,
I wasted oceans just watching,
Sunset over seas of water-course-language,
And I swear…

I’ll never go back there again.

By the time my voice was found,
Unpacking these poor metaphors,
Once lost somewhere in the baggage,
It was already time to move on.

Back in Morocco,
I never made it to Casablanca,
Ran right out of time,
So we never really had Paris either,
But it sounded good,
Beautiful friendships,

Going ahead at these break neck speeds,
And like Rick said,
I stick my neck out for no one.

Seeing road signs,
That point to nowhere,
Or back to themselves,
In this tautological limp back ho-
-I mean, where I came from.

So I need reminding,
With some directions at hand,
That this is where I’m at,
I am home,






Saturday, October 17, 2009

A Parental Palatial Paradise -18/10/2009


A washing machine that won't ever steal my coins,
Chew up my clothes,
Or leave them covered in powder,
No socks lost,
And only the mistakes are mine.

A real and actual clothes line,
Placed where the wind may blow,
And the sun may shine,
Showers are overhead and hot,
Towels thick and soft,
No more frayed or blotchy than my fragile mind,
In its hangover morning mode.

A fridge and cupboard full of food,
More than even a mythical beast might eat,
Spoils of war, renounced to the armchair traveller,
A television set I once owned myself,
Large enough that the screen could swallow me whole,
A DVD collection that once belonged to me,
Donated back,
Now cataloguing alotta lost time from my twenties.

The also-adopted cat curling up on my lap,
With claw-pricks undulating in and out of thighs,
And covering me in coats of her own fur,
But forgiven because she's purring our old forgotten song.

Breakfast on a verandah,
In a backyard where the grass really is greener,
Looking out over the Dandenong Mountains,
My God... are those trees?

Trees… are everywhere.

A car so powerful it simultaneously inflates,
And of course,
Diminishes one’s testicles,
Eardums percuss to the pulse,
Of my music on eleven at eleven,
Acoustically open up the heavens!

Floorboards shiny and waxed enough,
That I run can glide and slide over them in socks,
But not in a Tom Cruise impersonation,
And not, if anyone else was around.

But they are not,
And this is not my house,
In which I am sitting,
Eternally childish here,
A strange igloo in the sub-urban Siberia,
Out there.

The masters are away,
The ambivalent poet plays home-body,
In this equivalent to paradise,
My parents’ own palace,
This is not my house,

But it did used to be my home.


Ok, I promise no more list poems for a while... a little while.



Thursday, October 15, 2009

Weathered Face -16/10/2009


Tonight this city is drowning itself,
In my plans,
Sinking cries wail out the door,
Of this island-cum-net café,
Mixing with the waft of stale cigarette air,
And tinned Bengali music singing to the traffic,
Calling on us to be more interesting,
Than I think capable,
On account of the weather.

I’m in need of a new plan,
Where sheets of rain are slicing up the evening,
Into tinier and tinier pieces still,
But I’m saturated with six hours of non -stop,
And sit here water logged,
Soaked cobwebs now mingle flirting,
With the increasing numbers of lose threads,
Around the brim of my hat,
Just as the holes on the shoulders of my T shirt,
Desire to grow closer to one another,
Chaffing of salt-crust on my hips and groin,
Competes for the attention,
With the sweat between my toes.

Best laid plans for sub-urban exploration,
Washing away in the rain,
Like the pin lost from my hat,
Bobbing up and down the gutter-gone-river,
As it is carried off underground.

I don’t want to move anymore,
My slice of tonight,
Is served up soggy with embarrassment,
Still sprinkled with the sand,
Dislodged from yesterday’s broken camera,
And a phone's fading-to-flat battery,
Waiting for a friend's call,
To take me back out that door,

Meantime my reflection painted on the PC screen,
Each masterstroke speaks of dampness,
And mushy moods.

And then the mobile shrieks for attention,
And I remember that this is a ‘tonight’ in another town,
And I’ll never get enough of these in my life,
And this is still the game I’ve chosen to play,
And even if the weather has altered,
The players’ positions on the board,
The game goes on,
Nothing and no-one can stop it.
Least of all me.

So the water damaged hat,
Is picked up,
The decision to stand up,
Is made,
And the cold sting of wet clothes down to the butt crack,
Is felt.

But I’m on my feet,
Walking out into weather,
-or not-
The dampener on my plans,
Is the defeat of my spirit,
Pitter patters static sounds on the brim of my hat,
A nagging nay-say stay-inside notion,
Rejoined by a chorus of my footfalls,
In puddles that sound a lot like,
Fuck… the… rain,
Left… right… left,

Because it is a game ~
Everyone here knows the rules by now,
Tonight, like any other,
Weather winner and loser,
No one is allowed to try staying dry.

You walk,

And keep facing the weather.



Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Except For "Architecture In Helsinki" -13/10/2009 (re-edited 16/10)


With your cats watching us.
With your glasses on,
With one of my boots still on,
With your shoes staying on,
With the doors,
Remaining unlocked.

When the next press of the snooze button,
Could not be more than mere seconds away,
When you are trying, so hard, to continue talk,
To your friend on the phone,
When you are already half-outside the car door,
When I really do have so much work to get done tonight,
When no other cars have pulled up next to us at the lights,
When we passed that big empty park,
Near my parents’ house.

With someone wondering where we got to,
With the belt buckle still getting in the way,
With my thumb sitting in your mouth,
With some stupid music on,
Anything except ‘Architecture in Helsinki’,
Because that would really kill…
Any adequate blood supply,
Where it might be needed.

Without any restraints on volume,
Without having ever made it past the lounge floor,
Without being sure your friend in the next room over,
Is really asleep yet,
Without walls any more solid or substantial than the thin excuses used,
For coming back here,
Far away from the many possibilities, for well-behaved cowardice.
Without me failing to notice how suddenly you were looking...
In another direction,
When I was looking ,
In your direction.
Without me letting you get away with that, one last time.

And with you,
Distractedly making that obligatorily-offered cup of tea,
Or coffee,
That I was ostensibly-invited in for,
But that neither of us really…


…really wanted.




Friday, October 9, 2009

Digest-ation 10/10/09


You are still there,
In another place that looks like the last,
Dizzy stagger busy,
Never enough of this I've-had-enough-of-this binge,
Vomitting up where your alones' left off.

Leaving you where every street walks back,
To every map the wrong way turned,
To every bus ticket and train station,
To every pillow talked through,
Striking back at dawn,
Like a Big Mac eaten ten minutes ago,
It didn't seem to even touch the sides,
And now...

You are already wanting another one.

This sky-scraping sky-line,
Reminds you of so many others,
Would take ten nights of conversations,
To outline them all,
You don't have that many left in you,
And not one single ear besides yours,
That is willing to listen,
Can hear a grumbling from my mid-section,
You are hungry,

Looking at all those lights left on,
Burning what energy this species has left,
Needless and afraid of the dark,
Stuck so high beyond reach,
And from this empty place you stomach,
Everything known,

Just comes down to an appetite, returning.