...
Take me to that place where darkness reigns
it's the only place where I can truly see
My life is littered with shadows
they seem to follow me
swallow me
swallow me
in the darkness of your mind
the darkness of your past
engulf me in a thousand lost nights
of all your shattered dreams
Tell me all your dirty secrets
show me all your stains
wrap me in the soiled clothing of your past
hidden
like the only dress you ever owned
the one worn inside-out and back-to-front
Strip me of this long black coat
woven from years of silence
and the sound of drinking alone
this coat that strangles me
cloaks my voice
and chokes my tongue
Set me free in the night-time
of your darkest desires
Our wardrobes both could tell some lurid tales
our naked bodies - even more
but let's fling open the doors of our minds
read what's underneath this skin of ours
I want you to see the world
through my bruised eyes
and tell you why my bleeding face
once blinded me
to love
Let's flip the switch
on the brighter side of life
sunshine, flowers, and childhood innocence
long gone
they can't teach me a thing
and I don't want to learn
I want to study your night sky
Unleash the thunder
rumbling in your troubled heart
I'll drench you in the stormclouds of my mind
Let's wash ourselves
down each others darkened streams
Tonight would be the perfect night
for the sky is as black as our souls
The moon and stars have hand-clouds over their eyes
over their ears
Let's start life anew
Let's start life from the mountaintops
and ride each other
down
our dirty rivers
until we splash into the darkness of the sea
It will stop us dreaming of ...
what never was
what can never be
...
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
When Fibre Falls Apart
...
When Fibre Falls Apart
(an ode to Suskind's Perfume)
She left her cardigan behind
on purpose
as though she knew
I'd never wash the wool
treat it like a relic
some martyred saint's
from early Christian days
not second-class to me.
Her shoulders formed a perfect fit
inside my winter gift
as if the wool itself
was fashioned first
She would lay upon the bed
sink into the quilt, and drown
her eyes in Suskind's Perfume
I would smell her nape,
her armpits and her hair
Not quite the sensitive Grenouille
but in my own olfactory way
she was my 'girl behind the wall'
All my days have turned to night
Now each night's an empty seat, across a table that never seemed so wide
a cluttered room
that never seemed so bare
My bed is empty now
It can't be filled with anyone
Not while her cardigan
lays draped across the bedpost
And, if
and when
I bunch the wool into a ball
and press it to my face
a horde of odours escape
like thousands of transparencies
captured on slow shutter-speed
those midnight drives in springtime hills
when apple blossoms overwhelmed the dust, and dirt
on leather car-seat ribbing
transferred to my cuffs
That itch on my skin
Is that the sand we rollicked in?
It could be
a thousand places along the coast
from the green-black splash at Wilson's Prom
to the endless stretch of blue and white, all along the Coorong
All my months have turned to winter
Maybe I'll never see another spring
I've seen her with her new man
he dines her at Du Champs
on the corner of Blithe and Spree
I gather he's fond of her
new buttoned jumper
he wears it
so close to his chest
I hope she tires of expensive tastes
and fancy clothes never replace
her one true love:
simplicity
Now my only joy
is that of the beloved Apostle
His Epistle, 1:1
"To have seen, and looked upon
and handled the divinity. "
...
When Fibre Falls Apart
(an ode to Suskind's Perfume)
She left her cardigan behind
on purpose
as though she knew
I'd never wash the wool
treat it like a relic
some martyred saint's
from early Christian days
not second-class to me.
Her shoulders formed a perfect fit
inside my winter gift
as if the wool itself
was fashioned first
She would lay upon the bed
sink into the quilt, and drown
her eyes in Suskind's Perfume
I would smell her nape,
her armpits and her hair
Not quite the sensitive Grenouille
but in my own olfactory way
she was my 'girl behind the wall'
All my days have turned to night
Now each night's an empty seat, across a table that never seemed so wide
a cluttered room
that never seemed so bare
My bed is empty now
It can't be filled with anyone
Not while her cardigan
lays draped across the bedpost
And, if
and when
I bunch the wool into a ball
and press it to my face
a horde of odours escape
like thousands of transparencies
captured on slow shutter-speed
those midnight drives in springtime hills
when apple blossoms overwhelmed the dust, and dirt
on leather car-seat ribbing
transferred to my cuffs
That itch on my skin
Is that the sand we rollicked in?
It could be
a thousand places along the coast
from the green-black splash at Wilson's Prom
to the endless stretch of blue and white, all along the Coorong
All my months have turned to winter
Maybe I'll never see another spring
I've seen her with her new man
he dines her at Du Champs
on the corner of Blithe and Spree
I gather he's fond of her
new buttoned jumper
he wears it
so close to his chest
I hope she tires of expensive tastes
and fancy clothes never replace
her one true love:
simplicity
Now my only joy
is that of the beloved Apostle
His Epistle, 1:1
"To have seen, and looked upon
and handled the divinity. "
...
Untamed Irish Eyes
...
At dusk, her eyes blink farewell to the day
and open to the darkness of the night
Her evening eyes are wild
deep as an Irish ocean
on a 'dark as a dog's guts' night
Her waves twist and turn
to fists, as she fights
her nightly battle with the land
Serene white mornings, filled with light blue slaps -
delicate lover's taps
as her waves lick the shore
and her tongue tickles the seaweed strips
Give way to sounds
that make the darkness shudder
Crashes! and cracks!
as she arcs her back
and pounds the rocks
with a ferocity
her daytime often lacks
as she slides up and down the polished rock
like molten wax
dripping with delight
The moon sinks into a crescent slide
slips beneath its milky sheets
to listen like night's earpiece
Tis the erotica of nature on display
Tonight, she'll go the distance again
in saturated clinches
and sweaty-faced embraces
lashings of unguarded tongue
Morning will find her flat
last night's scrappy canvas
mopped clean again
her skin stretched taut once more
as her smile splays across the land
Tis companionless exhaustion
what she calls, a torturous delight
Tis just another day
and lazing about
is just her way
of preparing for the night
when her blinks at the sun
make it scatter and run
to hide its eyes
from the wink
she reserves for the night.
...
At dusk, her eyes blink farewell to the day
and open to the darkness of the night
Her evening eyes are wild
deep as an Irish ocean
on a 'dark as a dog's guts' night
Her waves twist and turn
to fists, as she fights
her nightly battle with the land
Serene white mornings, filled with light blue slaps -
delicate lover's taps
as her waves lick the shore
and her tongue tickles the seaweed strips
Give way to sounds
that make the darkness shudder
Crashes! and cracks!
as she arcs her back
and pounds the rocks
with a ferocity
her daytime often lacks
as she slides up and down the polished rock
like molten wax
dripping with delight
The moon sinks into a crescent slide
slips beneath its milky sheets
to listen like night's earpiece
Tis the erotica of nature on display
Tonight, she'll go the distance again
in saturated clinches
and sweaty-faced embraces
lashings of unguarded tongue
Morning will find her flat
last night's scrappy canvas
mopped clean again
her skin stretched taut once more
as her smile splays across the land
Tis companionless exhaustion
what she calls, a torturous delight
Tis just another day
and lazing about
is just her way
of preparing for the night
when her blinks at the sun
make it scatter and run
to hide its eyes
from the wink
she reserves for the night.
...
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sparkles
...
My sister's eyes have lost their spark.
The flint of life that once ignited lights
which burned so bright
has worn away.
Death’s glint shines in eyes
that cast a thousand looks my way—
glances understood through intuition
only born of brotherhood.
As kids, we both could walk for hours on lime-
stone roads, without a word.
Certain sights, like
Granny Hardy tredleying her
‘Pumpkin on a pimple’ bike
would strike us
like a lightning bolt
and crack our sides wide open.
We’d turn and face each other
like two mirrors
and do the knee-slap dance.
Those days are way behind me now—
left in the wake of
early adulthood,
a home-town departure’s
moist exhaust fumes—
buried in layers of clay
beneath dead couch grass
strangling lumpy graves
In my new house and town
that’s hardly home
I just might meet a woman
wife or defacto style
We might press skin-on-skin
I might even find myself
‘within’
but our lives run parallel
and always will
Within the specks
within the pools of colours inherited
whatever they might be
I’d find a relative or two
I’d never met
or ever even spoken to
not near the room for me
my sister's dying fields
of green and yellow contained
Who will laugh with me now?
Who will share my smile in advance?
When life's great feather-duster
tickles my funny-bone,
I turn,
expect to see
those eyes
but the air is cold and empty now
and the swish of quills
brings on a chill
that leaves me cold, and
miserable
I have to drag the sparkle from my memory.
...
My sister's eyes have lost their spark.
The flint of life that once ignited lights
which burned so bright
has worn away.
Death’s glint shines in eyes
that cast a thousand looks my way—
glances understood through intuition
only born of brotherhood.
As kids, we both could walk for hours on lime-
stone roads, without a word.
Certain sights, like
Granny Hardy tredleying her
‘Pumpkin on a pimple’ bike
would strike us
like a lightning bolt
and crack our sides wide open.
We’d turn and face each other
like two mirrors
and do the knee-slap dance.
Those days are way behind me now—
left in the wake of
early adulthood,
a home-town departure’s
moist exhaust fumes—
buried in layers of clay
beneath dead couch grass
strangling lumpy graves
In my new house and town
that’s hardly home
I just might meet a woman
wife or defacto style
We might press skin-on-skin
I might even find myself
‘within’
but our lives run parallel
and always will
Within the specks
within the pools of colours inherited
whatever they might be
I’d find a relative or two
I’d never met
or ever even spoken to
not near the room for me
my sister's dying fields
of green and yellow contained
Who will laugh with me now?
Who will share my smile in advance?
When life's great feather-duster
tickles my funny-bone,
I turn,
expect to see
those eyes
but the air is cold and empty now
and the swish of quills
brings on a chill
that leaves me cold, and
miserable
I have to drag the sparkle from my memory.
...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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