on moss coated blocks of contoured concrete
a fawn fence, weathered at the top, is warping,
twisting nails out, moving at the speed of glacial growth
and overhung in places
with the dark palatial flowers
Kowhai cascades. bloom-peak reached.
ti Kouka pom pom with seed.
at the gym, I wear a mask
to enter, and to leave.
it’s doorways where the pathogens are trapped?
a mixed bunch gathers in our chat.
hardly are we hesitant, adamant in fact.
the requirements of regulatory acts
alert Perceiving of an Instance…the racks
of cooled tech, circuit board,
cities full of chips, processors stalled in ships
bottled necked in ports in the U.S.
deep-learning lately features at the Flicks
(I suppose they used to flicker)
On is on, it isn’t I.T.
intelligence in systems, the crypts
of recognition, at the gym,
a mask to enter, and to leave, class=”Apple-converted-space”>
the jab, the finger; more disease.
doorways where the passengers are trapped.
is cultic, how linguistic memes are trapped.
who so loved the world, that virgin party
girl, that jealous guy, or god—that airline,
offering, fairly odd, space travel
or travail, the scent is off,
we’re hardly here at all,
spider webs suspending jumbo jets.
jumbo fuel and hypersonic sets
two tonne of bricks
suspended by a single human hair.
made of barely anything
how much we are not here.
abseilers hang off climbing ropes
drilling spots to fix the wire mesh
an emptiness which holds in every Thing.
whose sides are made of what a centre loves.
the weight & both the weightlessness of Earth
the planet, earth the soil, & the wetness of a grape.
the ball hangs by a thread and doesn’t break,
water stays in coves. Light speeds, but how
does something massless move?
the stone inside the apricot,
that code inside that stone.
who I think of as myself
quark-fast and heaviness
I catch him looking back
and he gets such a fright
a sense of barely anything.
heard enough. tonight.
I need the extra density
some god above it all—
the role of kings and popes
and presidents, these residents
rule with only strength of human hair.
rodents are irregular; they care;
their young experience all the playfulness
required of a slow-develop Mammal
but how about that Turtle!
buried in its shell inside the sand.
first off, right out from the starting blocks,
a manic sprint into the omni(|)cean
born knowing something wants it.
the stillness to enjoy in rumination
the silence in us noticing
the utter lack of any actual stillness
Time, leaves, like minutes, days
dissolve back back back into the seconds,
it is decades since the brown coins were flattened
on the hot polished railway tracks
sky dissolved in trees and roots express it
the clock shows work, the feedback loop,
the afternoon and night, pathetic
yellow eyes, then red, staring through an edginess
and throat burn, acid bile retching
determined I can binge the voiding core
and spread an open emptiness within;
at dawn I had to walk the 8K’s, more
or less, without my boots, they were lost,
left somewhere at the house of the woman
with the tattoo of her name, a compass scar
with pen ink leaked into the gouge.
I crept out quiet as she slept.
the macrocarpa old and dense
a wind break square around the yard
my wholeness in repair
my emptiness too dense
and I think I get why people scar
names into the soft wood of their trunks.
in the sun, and then the rain
below the old tarpaulin
bottles clink, touching
the long weekend
another long weekend—two,
long weekends, sequentially,
green and white and boats
on trailers, well looked after
fellowship, serrated rip
the spirit bottles give
the pitter patter
rain drops, hissing drops
on charcoal, hotplates,
hellos spoken, strangers
share comparing thought
woman loosened freely talk
on bottles, cups, and cones
and pills, the short
and sweet wine bottles
given in the 80’s
each one a starting pistol
expressing all I wanted
and having given up,
so goodbye to all that
name is Dean,
and I’m a telepathic
for I know that very soon
the contents in the vessel
will control my epistle.
bottles toast the long week’s end
recent mows on cricket fields
sprinklers in the rain
I do not think a player
out of tune or time
with the orchestra
is inconsistent with the wail
from innumerable microcosms
Sound is sung from itself.
infant turtles are carried off
by parent gulls to feed
to their hungry chicks.
if Today can show us Tomorrow
may Now be all you need
of Time, folded upon itself
like pages in a novel—
pencil point, heartbeat,
glass of water, good sleep.