Once I sang
I cool blueline
drenched in wonder.
But gave it away to the fingers, they
touched the bleak edge
of an unmoneyed future
& I saw it
like some untethered boat
react with a fingertip nudge
just float away
to the open sea of a stranger's way.
That was so simple.
they fight, fuck up & fix.
as their batons rule the beat.
It's them who work the guns,
take us down from trees
to their shitty little that
chon a beige savannah plain.
under the thumbcommute between fingerfoods
& a hand signed repossession order.
Our minds sit locked
in boxes made of muscle.
*Previously published in Bluepepper, 2006
Snowbound, Waiting For The Hearse
If & when freezing Mum she’d want to know
that all the pleats were tidy –
hair done, the best string of pearls.
The deep freeze must be thoroughly scrubbed
then scented with 4711
orange oil & hospital grade bleach – effect
eternal but tidy
both practical & kitchen based.
Her hands should be folded
but eyes propped open…
she will scowl at you through all the blizzards/
the frozen xmas bird of mother-love.
*First published in Sugar Mule
only darkness is free.
The police had spotlights
on the body, a plain white sheet
covering less than planned &
the blood was a gloss to burn fire engines.
The television people were there &
the official lighting was a blessing because
there was a truth to talk about.
Diana was buried tonight
Mother Theresa & this
just support acts
but pulse lost
just as firmly.
in young-guy clothes on Saturday night
fits the young guy victim profile
like 501s & attitude footwear.
He was my first
& deserves more distinction than that.
*First published in Stories of the Feet
Sydney wanted fresh
but sick and blemish
had etched that day.
Then our eyes were healed -
drank the black tincture
of a harbour seconded by night,
fettled under starsplay.
*Previously published in Verses
It's a click in the head,
a shunt in the marshalling yard as carriages come apart,
in the weeds of ganglion.
Then I am flying.
Like a surfboard
but less devious turbulence
or clutter of the tribe.
The air supports
No flapping of imagined wings
or contraptions that ordered souls can fabricate.
This is simply me
without the gravity,
habits of the feet.
A mind let loose -
one part reading atmosphere maps
thermal tracks the gossip of jetstream.
The rest is gasping with unfixed eyes
at human life made tiny -
a mosaic of colour, congregation.
There is no distance, though touch becomes
a convention dropped along the way.
This is the time most alive
though I suspect I am asleep.
That stuff of bodies & the real
is a debate left
beside friends, money/
the mortgage & pets.
I am waiting
(some steps closer to empty space)
for solar flares, epiphany/
a collaboration of crows.
Or the southerly change to send me
crashing back to flesh.
*First published in Famous Reporter