I went to the Cathedral
half hoping for a Damascus Road flash.
All I found was a graceless barnyard space,
pressed full; a sweaty, heaving mass;
no baby to be found there.
The incense was a rich nostalgic lick:
sweet nothing like the tale end of dreams.
The carols were a playlist
put together to impress
some carol loathing musical sophisticate.
At least they had We Three Kings on the list.
I sang until my ghostly tonsils ached;
there was joy in that, and my partner's casual touch,
but nothing else.
We left before the Eucharistic prayer
and drank the fresh air outside the church.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
RACHMANINOV'S VESPERS
My soul grazed
longing soaring.
My sacred hearing
dispossessing.
My heart's door
reverberating.
My banquet hall
all ready now.
longing soaring.
My sacred hearing
dispossessing.
My heart's door
reverberating.
My banquet hall
all ready now.
Monday, November 28, 2011
MANHATTAN
To first see Manhattan go to Staten Island even if your Russian taxi driver groans with gulag desperation.Tell him you want to catch a ferry and when he says,"What! I take you to city direct!" Give the bastard as good as you get: New York style, blunt non-negotiation.
First sight from St. George across the water: a distant urban mound; a city that seems dense pressed on little ground; the south port metal curtain to a deep spread town.
ALL ABOARD! ALL ABOARD!
Sound of commuters; sound of crowd surge past camouflaged soldiers; sniffer dogs; flury of newspapers; the chant of an umbrella wielding street vendor, "if you pass me by, you won't stay dry;" moving stuff; looking to trade; looking to make a buck; looking to move up, upwards;
crossing water: vertical emergence.
Close closer now and all the crowd bristled in response; a sideways glance: that outstretched arm; that flame; those Ellis Island huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the clamouring cacophony of myth and hope and industry piled high and all above your head.
ALL ASHORE! ALL ASHORE!
To first see Manhattan use your feet; take a hike along the slow reveal of canyon streets; see light bathed glories framed by dishevelled nights; the shuffle of the nowhere; dark spaces that bite; take accidental corners that reveal street vendors, pocket cultures, negotiators making deals; that rich real that surpases all the myths.
To first see Manhattan is to see what a city is.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
OCCUPY POETRY
It's time to occupy poetry,
out in the streets, under canvas;
words could be bread baked
and free broke and gnawed
at a raggedy feast.
It's time to liberate poetry
from obscure, self-serving
elites, so it can spill out into
street chants through the fuse
of the ordinary.
It's time to reclaim poetry
as common wealth sounded
in heart beat; life given over
to word dance and the rhythm
of marching feet.
out in the streets, under canvas;
words could be bread baked
and free broke and gnawed
at a raggedy feast.
It's time to liberate poetry
from obscure, self-serving
elites, so it can spill out into
street chants through the fuse
of the ordinary.
It's time to reclaim poetry
as common wealth sounded
in heart beat; life given over
to word dance and the rhythm
of marching feet.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
ON BEING A MAN
Thin lines hold that hairline fractured thing,
so tentative, so far from the man-up roar,
broken before and held together now,
stitch stretched and questionably convincing.
To be a man, to be fallen from the myths,
to be broken, not invincibly whole,
to be deep bruised far from expectations,
secretly lost in a bewildering world.
To be a man, to be a channel of tears,
worn raw to strange sympathetic symphonies,
moved as much by beauty as by pain:
stitch stretched, breaking, impossibly reaching.
so tentative, so far from the man-up roar,
broken before and held together now,
stitch stretched and questionably convincing.
To be a man, to be fallen from the myths,
to be broken, not invincibly whole,
to be deep bruised far from expectations,
secretly lost in a bewildering world.
To be a man, to be a channel of tears,
worn raw to strange sympathetic symphonies,
moved as much by beauty as by pain:
stitch stretched, breaking, impossibly reaching.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
VAN DIEMEN'S LAND
Country, my country,
you tidal claim me and I am not alone;
earth leached into bones,
my soil heart sings you. I am all rock
because of you, all wave tug rugged lost in you;
far from you, never apart from you,
country my country.
I see flame light across the waters, flickering
grief across the waters: black sentinel all still;
wife killed by a butcher's knife; tribe bled
close to nothing. What have we done,
o what have we done,
country, my country?
Mountain speaks, river speaks, highlands
murmur down through valleys deep;
the crest fall wonder beckons still
and years cannot beat gravity,
country, my country.
Sing islands, sing rivers, sing choir gums,
rain splattered crowd of watchers sing
the wisdom claim that stakes your full possession.
Country, my country,
still in the deep root heart of me,
the south wind brings the fury of the world
and I am lost without you.
you tidal claim me and I am not alone;
earth leached into bones,
my soil heart sings you. I am all rock
because of you, all wave tug rugged lost in you;
far from you, never apart from you,
country my country.
I see flame light across the waters, flickering
grief across the waters: black sentinel all still;
wife killed by a butcher's knife; tribe bled
close to nothing. What have we done,
o what have we done,
country, my country?
Mountain speaks, river speaks, highlands
murmur down through valleys deep;
the crest fall wonder beckons still
and years cannot beat gravity,
country, my country.
Sing islands, sing rivers, sing choir gums,
rain splattered crowd of watchers sing
the wisdom claim that stakes your full possession.
Country, my country,
still in the deep root heart of me,
the south wind brings the fury of the world
and I am lost without you.
Monday, November 7, 2011
TWO DEPARTED MEN
The two men met their maker
somewhere close to Gundagai
on a misty stretch of highway.
I arrived home to hear the news
from a boggle eyed, vague Irishman
who delivered it like a joke without a punch-line.
I drank straight whisky
to reassure myself that I was alive
but it didn't beat the chill inside me.
The younger man would have read
theological themes in the mangled wreck
and the gritty particularity of his dying.
The older man would have just sighed
and muttered some melancholy phrase
with his tremorous voice crackling.
The funeral was a clamorous affair
that would have caused the younger man
to lay down with a migraine.
The old man would have gathered it all in
and squeezed it into a tiny declaration
that it was nice and the people were good.
They are buried under dewy grass,
on the outskirts of the city,
brothers in the shadow of a chapel.
somewhere close to Gundagai
on a misty stretch of highway.
I arrived home to hear the news
from a boggle eyed, vague Irishman
who delivered it like a joke without a punch-line.
I drank straight whisky
to reassure myself that I was alive
but it didn't beat the chill inside me.
The younger man would have read
theological themes in the mangled wreck
and the gritty particularity of his dying.
The older man would have just sighed
and muttered some melancholy phrase
with his tremorous voice crackling.
The funeral was a clamorous affair
that would have caused the younger man
to lay down with a migraine.
The old man would have gathered it all in
and squeezed it into a tiny declaration
that it was nice and the people were good.
They are buried under dewy grass,
on the outskirts of the city,
brothers in the shadow of a chapel.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
PROPHECY
I dance with the beast I do not name
of meat and bones and righteous rage;
a mean eyed, angry stamping thing
that shakes the floor and makes ears ring;
that stares down mediocraties
and rages for ascendancy;
a herd stampede through all my frame
that leaves me weak and near insane;
a force that gathers up its words
to pound those flimsy dubious worlds
where I have tried to take a seat,
contained, while others dumbly speak
their flimsy surface rhetoric
that sets me dancing with my beast.
of meat and bones and righteous rage;
a mean eyed, angry stamping thing
that shakes the floor and makes ears ring;
that stares down mediocraties
and rages for ascendancy;
a herd stampede through all my frame
that leaves me weak and near insane;
a force that gathers up its words
to pound those flimsy dubious worlds
where I have tried to take a seat,
contained, while others dumbly speak
their flimsy surface rhetoric
that sets me dancing with my beast.
Monday, October 31, 2011
THE OLD MENDICANT
You need to mix molasses with the straw
even when the paddocks are bone dry;
dark into water clear; a heavy stick to mix;
rattle truck cacophony; bails stacked sky high.
He grunts and mutters dark and light:
loves salt and earth and curses holy goats.
His world: rope tug births, markets, herds,
the stuff of shit stench, dust clouds, heavy loads.
His other world is long remembering:
the virtue vice of old Manila Streets and begging,
the vice virtue of old school monasteries.
Up in the hills he's bellowing his call;
a bucket of molasses and liberal scattered straw;
the drought wise man of practicalities
knows how to keep beasts alive with poor feed.
even when the paddocks are bone dry;
dark into water clear; a heavy stick to mix;
rattle truck cacophony; bails stacked sky high.
He grunts and mutters dark and light:
loves salt and earth and curses holy goats.
His world: rope tug births, markets, herds,
the stuff of shit stench, dust clouds, heavy loads.
His other world is long remembering:
the virtue vice of old Manila Streets and begging,
the vice virtue of old school monasteries.
Up in the hills he's bellowing his call;
a bucket of molasses and liberal scattered straw;
the drought wise man of practicalities
knows how to keep beasts alive with poor feed.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
PADDY
Those sighs measured
his distance from the Shannon;
they were long sighs,
miles and years long,
and full of young departure
and strange exile.
He wore his careworn state
with a battered beanie;
walked with a meandering gait;
his cock-eyed grin
signed off with
arch browed wonder.
He groaned and sighed
his ancient prayers,
sometimes to a chainsaw
harsh crescendo:
soul vigorous
to splinter heaven's door.
Seeing now, not seeing then,
a man like him carved deep
by river memories and distance;
voice long gone,
his exile song runs true.
Now he is river. Now he is home.
his distance from the Shannon;
they were long sighs,
miles and years long,
and full of young departure
and strange exile.
He wore his careworn state
with a battered beanie;
walked with a meandering gait;
his cock-eyed grin
signed off with
arch browed wonder.
He groaned and sighed
his ancient prayers,
sometimes to a chainsaw
harsh crescendo:
soul vigorous
to splinter heaven's door.
Seeing now, not seeing then,
a man like him carved deep
by river memories and distance;
voice long gone,
his exile song runs true.
Now he is river. Now he is home.
Monday, October 24, 2011
SEEING WHOLE
Strange tremorous need to grasp
as though shards could be pressed whole again,
as though pain was counter-intuitive healing.
Vice ideas make bleeding fingers, palms;
hard wired language fuels the rigamortis grasp:
broken, whole, redemptive suffering.
Someday other words and gentle palms,
eyes that see the fragment scattered whole,
unpierced to live this glitter kingdom world.
as though shards could be pressed whole again,
as though pain was counter-intuitive healing.
Vice ideas make bleeding fingers, palms;
hard wired language fuels the rigamortis grasp:
broken, whole, redemptive suffering.
Someday other words and gentle palms,
eyes that see the fragment scattered whole,
unpierced to live this glitter kingdom world.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
ANGELUS
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
Letter in the mail;
Tear stains with the ink.
Gotta keep the schedule
so the church don’t sink.
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
All the friars gather,
voting black and white.
Gotta wait to find out
if I'm deemed alright.
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
Friday, October 21, 2011
INSOMNIA
Catastrophic dream flash; cardiac jolt;
now wide awake, dog paddling
the long hours, wanting to stop, to
descend, to drown in a liquid glove.
The tremulous treachery of limbs
resisting, dull dim witted resistance,
back stroking, breast stroking, heat
stroking past midnight; the resignation
of dark open eyes. A sigh of options:
the internet, coffee; yes coffee:
ultimate resignation to be a wake to
the death of slumber. Too far from the
consolation of the sea: the cool to
sooth the fireflash and lightning fork
of neurons. Remembering sounds:
a night like this is made for such
rememberance: river waves
in childhood; the surge sound
of trains just beyond the graves
in Melbourne; the bellow of cattle
on that farm outside Sydney;
years of whispered love
to loveless nights. All these
sound chapters echo years,
making the dark a biographic
thing. Nights waiting for birth,
waiting for death. The weight
of waiting dragging eyes to show
their age. Remembering to
a fictive stretch: some ancestor
staring out at night cold eucalypts,
awake with bogside memories and
chain scars. And I'm wondering
if genes hold memories of
ancestral dislocation.
All fiction, the night is full of fiction
and conjured ghosts, pretending
company as the whole world
snores and salivates on pillows.
now wide awake, dog paddling
the long hours, wanting to stop, to
descend, to drown in a liquid glove.
The tremulous treachery of limbs
resisting, dull dim witted resistance,
back stroking, breast stroking, heat
stroking past midnight; the resignation
of dark open eyes. A sigh of options:
the internet, coffee; yes coffee:
ultimate resignation to be a wake to
the death of slumber. Too far from the
consolation of the sea: the cool to
sooth the fireflash and lightning fork
of neurons. Remembering sounds:
a night like this is made for such
rememberance: river waves
in childhood; the surge sound
of trains just beyond the graves
in Melbourne; the bellow of cattle
on that farm outside Sydney;
years of whispered love
to loveless nights. All these
sound chapters echo years,
making the dark a biographic
thing. Nights waiting for birth,
waiting for death. The weight
of waiting dragging eyes to show
their age. Remembering to
a fictive stretch: some ancestor
staring out at night cold eucalypts,
awake with bogside memories and
chain scars. And I'm wondering
if genes hold memories of
ancestral dislocation.
All fiction, the night is full of fiction
and conjured ghosts, pretending
company as the whole world
snores and salivates on pillows.
Monday, October 17, 2011
JUST NOT CRICKET
Camp lesson number one:
never underestimate
the cunning pedagogy of a snake;
beguiling, curled to strike,
out on the long grass boundary.
Resist the inclination boy,
let it go for six and don't look back,
that long grass bites like shadows in a crack.
Tears after bedtime in a game like that:
it's just not cricket and it never was.
never underestimate
the cunning pedagogy of a snake;
beguiling, curled to strike,
out on the long grass boundary.
Resist the inclination boy,
let it go for six and don't look back,
that long grass bites like shadows in a crack.
Tears after bedtime in a game like that:
it's just not cricket and it never was.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
HOME BODY
Safe strong, safe spent,
safe close to face the dark.
Soft thigh openned:
acquiescent, languorous.
Home, my home,
you are my home to me.
Welcome grip that
holds my marrow creed.
All words folded, quiet;
wordlessly
our skin, breath, heat,
now sing a litany.
safe close to face the dark.
Soft thigh openned:
acquiescent, languorous.
Home, my home,
you are my home to me.
Welcome grip that
holds my marrow creed.
All words folded, quiet;
wordlessly
our skin, breath, heat,
now sing a litany.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
FORGIVENESS
Forgiveness
is not by-pass surgery;
is not an alternative route;
is not discomfort circumvented.
Forgiveness
is rock slow ground to earth;
earth deep fired to brick;
brick carved slow with story;
story strong arched to bridge.
Forgiveness
is bridge broke down to story;
story worn back to brick;
brick slow ground to earth;
earth made bed to seed.
is not by-pass surgery;
is not an alternative route;
is not discomfort circumvented.
Forgiveness
is rock slow ground to earth;
earth deep fired to brick;
brick carved slow with story;
story strong arched to bridge.
Forgiveness
is bridge broke down to story;
story worn back to brick;
brick slow ground to earth;
earth made bed to seed.
CARMELITE
Just read evening prayer
he screams, lead foot
and in the driver's seat:
accelerating piety
swerving through the traffic.
The time bomb ticks;
his twitching boney cheeks,
grim lined, hard wired prick;
Geelong to Melbourne,
his gun acceleration
now near up a bus's arse.
Read the fucking prayers
he pleads, white knuckle
gripping hard the wheel,
his murderous speed
now making real
his all boys' catholic jihad.
Yet I refuse, my heart beat
drumming: this is how I die;
numb beyond all knowing,
now car coffined fast,
without a prayer to answer.
he screams, lead foot
and in the driver's seat:
accelerating piety
swerving through the traffic.
The time bomb ticks;
his twitching boney cheeks,
grim lined, hard wired prick;
Geelong to Melbourne,
his gun acceleration
now near up a bus's arse.
Read the fucking prayers
he pleads, white knuckle
gripping hard the wheel,
his murderous speed
now making real
his all boys' catholic jihad.
Yet I refuse, my heart beat
drumming: this is how I die;
numb beyond all knowing,
now car coffined fast,
without a prayer to answer.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
CHRONIC MIDDLE AGE
Middle ages man mourns,
in the depths of vague expectation,
the non-arrival of a mythic something;
some world confounding declaration;
some messianic consummation;
some something pinnacle unconquered.
He grieves over broken endings
and rages at ghostly silence.
Bruised by could have been's defiance,
he's saved by the tug of the ordinary
that brings him to here and now.
in the depths of vague expectation,
the non-arrival of a mythic something;
some world confounding declaration;
some messianic consummation;
some something pinnacle unconquered.
He grieves over broken endings
and rages at ghostly silence.
Bruised by could have been's defiance,
he's saved by the tug of the ordinary
that brings him to here and now.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
PTSD
Blood red buds, in an unexpected spring,
driven hard through all the clotted earth,
broken and beguiling with that ancient scent:
resurrection currents through grave dirt.
Brute cut betrayed by soft gathering hands
arranging spring patterns to be shown.
Closed doors trap that age old pungency;
heart beat drums rememberance chorus.
driven hard through all the clotted earth,
broken and beguiling with that ancient scent:
resurrection currents through grave dirt.
Brute cut betrayed by soft gathering hands
arranging spring patterns to be shown.
Closed doors trap that age old pungency;
heart beat drums rememberance chorus.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
SLAP STICK BANANA PEEL MEMORY
You put it
behind
but it still trips you up:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
How the hell
did it get
back in front:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
The soul monkey
laughs and then
calls you a schmuck:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
You clownish
claim that
you've had quite enough:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
behind
but it still trips you up:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
How the hell
did it get
back in front:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
The soul monkey
laughs and then
calls you a schmuck:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
You clownish
claim that
you've had quite enough:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
FRIDAY
Eyes press up
through sky cracking trees;
all those leaves
looking to take flight
from brittle slender threads.
Friday convulsions
press my newborn day;
I sip coffee in a place
full of african rhythms
and dream across oceans.
all those leaves
looking to take flight
from brittle slender threads.
Friday convulsions
press my newborn day;
I sip coffee in a place
full of african rhythms
and dream across oceans.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
372
Busting at the seams on the 372
a thousand tagged rollerdoors rush by
a girl arranges her face into a sly smile
a businessman shifts discontentedly behind
bare bone streets with middle eastern flourishes
a bag lady dives into yesterday's garbage
a lad paces the corner with a long bay shuffle
early morning light hangs broken in the air
crowds surge to the bus door to be freed
in the tunnel buskers soft strum the crowd
the steady thunderclap of ticket machines
the steady sound of a city breathing
hands rustle and shake newspaper headlines
pigeons gather at crumbs then erupt in flight
burnt toast and coffee scent the air
a lady studiously fingers her mobile phone
monday morning questions hang unanswered
instance by instance dissolves in the flow.
a girl arranges her face into a sly smile
a businessman shifts discontentedly behind
bare bone streets with middle eastern flourishes
a bag lady dives into yesterday's garbage
a lad paces the corner with a long bay shuffle
early morning light hangs broken in the air
crowds surge to the bus door to be freed
in the tunnel buskers soft strum the crowd
the steady thunderclap of ticket machines
the steady sound of a city breathing
hands rustle and shake newspaper headlines
pigeons gather at crumbs then erupt in flight
burnt toast and coffee scent the air
a lady studiously fingers her mobile phone
monday morning questions hang unanswered
instance by instance dissolves in the flow.
BLACK COCKATOOS
Enter the claw and feather brigade;
a black crack cawing at the sky;
the fierce descent on all things eucalypt;
audio anarchists; night dark to bright light.
the fierce descent on all things eucalypt;
audio anarchists; night dark to bright light.
CONTEMPLATIVE FIRE
I burnt down the church
to be buried with the ashes;
pressed to diamond, light hardened
in subterranean depths.
I burnt down the church
for the unforseen emergence;
mother, child, dark signature of fire,
an intimate dark night.
I burnt down the church
to be black as an apocalypse,
resilient as a charred and tested job
laughing in the ruins.
I burnt down the church
to end resistance to endings;
breath the highest dome of heaven
here and now.
pressed to diamond, light hardened
in subterranean depths.
I burnt down the church
for the unforseen emergence;
mother, child, dark signature of fire,
an intimate dark night.
I burnt down the church
to be black as an apocalypse,
resilient as a charred and tested job
laughing in the ruins.
I burnt down the church
to end resistance to endings;
breath the highest dome of heaven
here and now.
GOLEM
You were the golem
that I made;my monstrous inquisitor;
the desperate clamour
at my door
demanding everything.
And I was half-baked
kingdom maker;
sower of future failure;
melancholic in the wings
impaled
by my choosing.
We were each and all
the bell and incense
brigade;
moaners of psalms
and divine serenades
at eventide.
Friday, September 30, 2011
PATCHWORK ECONOMY
rip rip thread bare stitch
dirty frayed stitch fringe
overlaid ragged bottom
stitch heavy gold brocade
worn torn ragged sew sew
shiney shiney silver clean
metal button stitch stitch
stressed worn torn mean
thin red desperate patch
sew winter worn cool
sheer pin stripe front
worn torn arse bare ragged
hessian hard paper thin
last thread near stretched
heavy denim dirty stained
sun bleached country worn
black white rough strained
satin soft coarse grade
off cut shredded fabric
ugly pattern mismatch
stitch rip stitch rip slash
heavy grey blanket poor
gaudy whore bright floral
shoddy sad patchwork thing.
dirty frayed stitch fringe
overlaid ragged bottom
stitch heavy gold brocade
worn torn ragged sew sew
shiney shiney silver clean
metal button stitch stitch
stressed worn torn mean
thin red desperate patch
sew winter worn cool
sheer pin stripe front
worn torn arse bare ragged
hessian hard paper thin
last thread near stretched
heavy denim dirty stained
sun bleached country worn
black white rough strained
satin soft coarse grade
off cut shredded fabric
ugly pattern mismatch
stitch rip stitch rip slash
heavy grey blanket poor
gaudy whore bright floral
shoddy sad patchwork thing.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
MOUNTAIN AND RIVER
Mother broods, dark pieta blue,
and cradles the thin river town;
river runs to a broad sparse night;
south wind brings a rugged storm around.
Upfold country story sings this way:
water rock squeeze tight on narrow ground;
beauty budges loose for river tide;
swift departure plays in water sound.
and cradles the thin river town;
river runs to a broad sparse night;
south wind brings a rugged storm around.
Upfold country story sings this way:
water rock squeeze tight on narrow ground;
beauty budges loose for river tide;
swift departure plays in water sound.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
ON VISITING THE FRED WILLIAMS EXHIBITION
In the gallery, girls with wishbone legs
crack past a brief apostrophe of passion
captured in a thick impasto swirl;
lost in a vast, red nothing landscape.
Everyman squints, bewildered by it all,
can't see what the fuss is all about,
peers close in hope of microscopic truth,
falls loose to the reign of painted space.
A guard wanders, disconsolate, beside
the triptych row of needle waterfalls,
punctured through a cave of abstract black
where ideas try to thick line plant a grasp.
Country falls through finger cracks:
the conquering descent of all that is,
makes desert plains and long coastal lines,
marks dark nights with a signature of flame.
crack past a brief apostrophe of passion
captured in a thick impasto swirl;
lost in a vast, red nothing landscape.
Everyman squints, bewildered by it all,
can't see what the fuss is all about,
peers close in hope of microscopic truth,
falls loose to the reign of painted space.
A guard wanders, disconsolate, beside
the triptych row of needle waterfalls,
punctured through a cave of abstract black
where ideas try to thick line plant a grasp.
Country falls through finger cracks:
the conquering descent of all that is,
makes desert plains and long coastal lines,
marks dark nights with a signature of flame.
Monday, September 26, 2011
REVELATION
(In memory of Bryon Molloy)
My stonemason ancestor
uncovered reverence in marble;
teased song from granite;
chipped breath from sandstone.
My stonemason ancestor
played tectonic symphonies;
felt presence in density;
worked calloused hands gently.
My stonemason ancestor
uncovered reverence in marble;
teased song from granite;
chipped breath from sandstone.
My stonemason ancestor
played tectonic symphonies;
felt presence in density;
worked calloused hands gently.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
MYSTIC COLD TURKEY
Hey ancient brother! How's it going? How's tricks?
Are you still creeping in the shadows
waiting for your incandescent deliverance?
Man I can't believe you're still down here
selling your dark night lines:
a little eros ground and cut
and metaphysically inhaled. How divine!
Don't think that I've forgotten that old time buzz
of whispered sweet nothings
and redemption ready, lucky faults;
O sweet to death baby, sweet to death;
O flourishing hook, O slow burn in veins:
O product of a dealer, fronting as a saint.
Sure, sunshine, they'd say
I got you all wrong yet again:
misinterpreting, misappropriating, misdemeanoring.
But baby we both know, beyond that tiresome joke,
it's not about the text play but the long soak,
it's not about awareness but the barely conscious undertow.
You know I went cold turkey when I left.
Remember you and me, down in that deep,
in our no holds barred slugfest.
O shadow, my shadow, my shadowy soul;
we bust each other up
and we bleed each other whole
and we know out misconceptions
when they break
and we take our sordid fragments and we make
a new day's sounding.
Are you still creeping in the shadows
waiting for your incandescent deliverance?
Man I can't believe you're still down here
selling your dark night lines:
a little eros ground and cut
and metaphysically inhaled. How divine!
Don't think that I've forgotten that old time buzz
of whispered sweet nothings
and redemption ready, lucky faults;
O sweet to death baby, sweet to death;
O flourishing hook, O slow burn in veins:
O product of a dealer, fronting as a saint.
Sure, sunshine, they'd say
I got you all wrong yet again:
misinterpreting, misappropriating, misdemeanoring.
But baby we both know, beyond that tiresome joke,
it's not about the text play but the long soak,
it's not about awareness but the barely conscious undertow.
You know I went cold turkey when I left.
Remember you and me, down in that deep,
in our no holds barred slugfest.
O shadow, my shadow, my shadowy soul;
we bust each other up
and we bleed each other whole
and we know out misconceptions
when they break
and we take our sordid fragments and we make
a new day's sounding.
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