Birds

Stark tree, reaching

To an endless sky.

A livery of black wings

Yawning beaks, gimlet eyes.

Wings crash in cold air

Lifting as one, a blackness

Folding into the night

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noJab V’s the cdc

the leaves returned, and left,
without my noticing. in summer
they hide the mountains.
passion-noticed once I thought
would be my leafage, being hollywood
-diminutive, fond of the mirror’s two
-page definitive

guide—a leave-her-gasping kind
of looter. afterwards, maturer,
I wanted…always wanted—a
thing of Zenful actualness…
but what a painful task!
is easier

to amplify the flame,
the burn, of self, called ‘Me’
than extinguish this! the glass,
the Image, mercury—
and where, in this, am I
the Am? tree

is not without
the earth, nor Earth the
other properties.

when I’m on the forklift
I view the actors
in the branches, in their bit parts
bare and free. I watch them
from the press
as I’m waiting the retraction of the ram,

and on the floor, where the grey winter
mud, from the large machinery, cakes
the concrete pad—the hardest ask
of anything I sought, the baring of
the ego to the root, the paring of the trunk
flesh back to sap, and what the leaf
thereof…the trees are not
natives so they shed their foliage.

they grow large leaves easily
vibrated in the slightest currents.
I love that …middle road, some Self,
a silent ego, balanced, nonsense,
when necessary; areas of seriousness
when the nonsense catches fire,
and philosophies, aflame, have parents
injecting flame retarders into the narrow
veins of narrow newborn arms.

 

 

 

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communion

In the dark I’m remote from what you call Personality. Nothing but nerve and guts

like flowers that shoot, up when you enter the room and I’m yours if you want.

 

For an hour, a minute. All night I can do nothing; text the dead, fix the gap of door/ and

jamb. In the mind: I trace

 

the index finger: air, contours of furniture, cracks,

slant of white light across the wall.

 

On your back at 2 o’clock you twist the ring around your finger.

I know you’re there. Don’t you feel it’s better like this.

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Deny Hope

The more absorbed by it
The further away we become
Inside we are tearing a deaf scream
Inside we realize we are the ones that are confused
But we fail to consciously acknowledge it
You can see it I can tell
I will belong to you
The cut of your dress
To look you in the shoe
Shame in my eyes
Could never meet your own
Then the rest would really know what it’s like
The screaming grows within us
Silence in a pool of dreams
Led by a charmers glance
Burn your doubts and tumble away dreams
Gift it back with song
It belongs to us
Give me the words
You can see
The rest of them don’t
I know you believe
No matter what she sees
Tell my lover to come back to me

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work

We hurled it up off the floor. 10 foot high/ four across.

Like a crucifix. It was.

 

I’d driven in from Damascus. 6-inch bloody nails. The first:

the head bent on the third

 

blow so I had to claw the cunt off and Jimmy’s giving me shit: hit

the fuckin thing straight. Christ

 

the man’s in mortal fucking pain but otherwise taking it good.

Cursing under his breath. That’s all.

 

Fuck me some days I wish it was me but I’m not fit

to even cry & I got no business to.

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A Man’s Smile

There was metal in his leg and his back

So it was an effort to make boats he could not sail.

He used his little strong hands to cut and shape toi toi.

He pulled out the fibre and made outriggers and masts,

And from a spiky mast flew a red spotted sail.

And the boat bounced on the creek’s little rapids,

Flicking reeds and sailing over shadows and ‘bullies.

It never tipped. Not this man’s boat.

We did not know he had seen too much death and been shot,

And that his pillow was full of tears.

We only knew that as he whittled, his smile pushed up his face

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creation story

In the beginning, she smiled & said Hello.

It might have been nothing. But by the 6th day, I was on her bed, the long grass by the river, taking in the scent of her hair which is like honey it’s true, & her skin and the pink between her thighs… Sandalwood, Royal Blue, her cotton dress, & on the 7th, resting beside her.

He smiled also & said Hello & he knew & she knew that nothing now would be the same. And he thought about her that night; & the next morning – the interplay of shadow/light, their hands…

 

On the 6th day they fell…tender, her soft folds caved, filled, full of him, falling…

 

& when she came

 

& when he came…

 

Flowers in bloom. She brought him violets, still wet from her garden

& at 10 past 3 he leapt over the fence onto the street & when he got home the flowers were still tight in his hand & at 3.30 she was still looking out the window when Stephen came home with the children.

 

 

 

 

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a painter reflects

a painter reflects 
         to Klingsor of ‘Klingsor’s Last Summer’ by Hermann Hesse

for me the loveliest lovers
were the landscapes the
aged the young naked in
sun or shower and no obvious
face to stare you down in
disdain to question your eyes
and whatever right you might
or might not have to even look
they simply lay in the fullness
of harvest or lean with winter
honest to the point they cracked
open in summer dryness swelled
with river cried out in the flush
of light an afternoon storm
cast upon them entered your
eyes fumbled about your heart
warming the stones of old
loves burned out in fires
kindled under the wind-risen
pines they wore the loveliest
of perfumes summer hay
lavender jasmine loosed
across the dusk no face
at all yet held you against
their body as you lay
to gather the first star
in the palm of your eye
they were the loveliest the
truest of those i loved
i served them only
as long as i could
lay them under
the brush lay remembrance
thick upon them dabbed up
from a bloody palette of
beauties i gutted there once
and drank to the dregs
served them then broke
with them for yet another
and as for faces?
there were always
the women who haunted
my glass of wine my cigar
with a splash of skin to
stagger the eye and drag
me toward whatever curve
of body or soul they
would put my way.
god the heart’s
but a foolish
piano this
old bird has
banged out
one-finger
melodies
upon.
the loveliest of lovers
were the landscapes
and i was only
true hopelessly
true to them
as long as
i needed.

july 2015

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no god

He caught me in the dark room stood,
a disused lamp, cornered; saw thru,
understood, as god would, subjectively.

But no-one ever knows what I think
as my pen scores the page. I’m alone:
not like when I’m by the river tho,

dark after the funeral, or in a crowd,
where an inner eye still lights me; but free,
beneath myself.

 

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Voicelessed

I can’t tell you
what I’m seeing, groups of
thug youths, with real,
sex and violence on their minds,
all over me
hitting shop windows with
fists
a toddlers drum, perfectly contained
“Beautiful Bitches’ spat from one
of the innocents
looking for all the action they can handle,
the street out side mcdonalds, as mainstream as it can get
all greed, violence and misogyny, celebrated in a kind of end of the world
melee
social groupings, the litteralisation of different tv channels
manifest as groups of people. young people cut off, alone with all of it
let to sit spewing in space, in a helmet.

And why not, let it all be.
I see them, see our programs aped mocked and swum in.
All us solders at camp
waiting to be shipped out
to nameless slaughter
on behalf of a name equally submitted to
and remain voicelessed.
Ships to pull up, pull out this crop, whores sluts and violent producers brimming with over flowing froth.
to throw up like a cloud of dust signifying nothing, nothing here
but the very heart of the matter,
seeing won’t be the test of it
this has gone on far to complicated
instead everything just working out
anyway, right

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worry of love

*‘worry’ of love
*either as in ‘worry about’ or ‘bother’

near the school
mothers worry
their children
across the road
at the gate
a mother worries
her daughter’s
hair into place
a father his
son’s jacket
a boy runs
to worry his
friend from the
same class
up ahead
a young man
worries his
girlfriend across
the cafe morning
table to open the
gift he’s given her
sellotaped up himself
late last night
a lady before
the quiet mirror
in the bedroom
worries the brooch
her husband gave
her fourty years ago,
fourty years that
just went,
on the balcony
worries her
husband’s eyes
looking out on
a sea deep
in blue, eyes
that see
only clouds
these days.

nelson st, howick
morning, 10 june 2013

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moral luck

hear us. score across

yr skin. understand:

 

we’re poor but..

content. even if

you fix us good; give

that we must live.

 

you, I’m sure,

care even less.

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