untitled

You touch me and my brain breaks.
What am I but the cogs of star fusion
crying to be held by other cogs.
In the greasy morning the metals move and
I machinate with the slush and the lights and the fog
spinning still from you, fondling my cock,
telling me our molecules were meant to collide.

Tonight the madness of mechanics will return to me
When I slip into you and light the void of space
with a furnace of slime.
I will shrug off this eager awkwardness and
Shift back into clockwork cogs of counting time
till you rescue me again with another face.

Euthanasia

The beginning is a rat's nest:
all slime and heavy oxygen.

The middle is a furious cloud of smokey hurricane,
twisting and twisting the air
over oceans dreaming of touching her hair,
moon blazing, bars blaring,
mind spinning.

The end: a dimming campfire of feigned faces
and noisy nurses who ignore the puss from your mouth,
gossip, gossip, a nuke goes off
and still there are two women swapping bickered lines -
wake up and smell the pine sol,
your fake grass is gone.
You crawl to the nursery and cry
with the monsters behind the glass.
They find you and carry you back to the tomb
all white and hallow echo.

shadow of the blinds

these days are long and mechanical. I have seen no visions of cunt or cum in the hazy poetry of times such that muse is but a word personified into a whore bating me "come come take on my STDS and I will swallow you forever never holding me" in the shadow of the blinds there is a man without a mind singing "this is the iron mine and this your hatchet and saw, this is the iron mine and this is your hatchet and..." fury from the windows in mandarin as i drift sleepily, hurling my hatchet at the base of the skull - "why are you violently moving?" says the mindless one in the shadows of the blinds, and the base moves, forgetting the ashy ceremonies of day and soothed though knowing some deceit is under the harvest moon.

Carry Me

Carry me to the pillar of bones.
Singing, carry me singing while they prepare the wood
smiling, let us worship the drought, starving,
singing for the wet flesh as you carry me to the bones.
Carry me singing of the trees, of orbs of light,
of space and sky where the silk web of hands is infinitely singing
of the slippery procession, carry me my mother of bones
where the gravity escapes the eager notes of the mind,
starving for more time, stomachs starving,
carry me, laughing and screaming at the blaze
so we can see them all, strings shivering,
stomachs smelling for the rain:
Carry me to the pillar of bones.

In Their Orbits

Water Street, rocky street. Old and decrepit. Smelling of shit and salt and atheism. But I get to thinking. I am a rock. We are all rocks, orbits already set. We are standing in them, mucking about with our eyes stuck in them like tar, stoned faces melting into the pavement, lights blurring into their metal poles, water running in the rusty grates, dirty shit hole, calloused cunt trap of a crumbling sidewalk. And there he was sitting on the cardboard. I sit beside him, smelling the piss from his clothes.

“Have a drink” he says.
“I can’t. It will wear me down. I can’t.”
“I am God. You will drink from the tree of life and still be empty. I make water come from the stone”
I drink.

Ice And Nothing

Scratching and rolling,
like metal against wood,
white against fiberglass, screeching,
lifting us up like a bird with a broken wing...
Seven days now and not one seal.
The boat is gonna roll
but Bill won’t get out on the pans,
as if he could do something to save her.

In the bunk the sounds are muffled
into a bear cry,
itching from every side, above and below,
scraping the thin sheet of wood and glass
between us and the cold roar-
the sleep façade goes on.

Bill coughs while the boat cracks
and we’re pretending not to notice the way she tips,
the sound of the water rushing in below us,
hiding our eyes and lockin’ on to nothin’
like stunned idiots.

In the dark I crawl to the deck
and stare out at the black and white -
holding us so close you could touch it.
Ice and Nothing.
I touch it when they aren’t looking.

Ice and Rock

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jutting out of the sea,
some emerging from a bed of purple flowers
on the edge of a rocky cove.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jagged and joking like jackals
in the early morning frost
as they trudged off to the ice to skin seals
in their most ragged clothes,
returning in the soft air with candy for the young
and blood soaking into their skin.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some rough like women with calloused hands
mending the flakes, laughing at the melting snow
while their children jump the ice pans,
proving their worth to each other,
returning in the chilly air ringing their clothes
to eat under the light of a kerosene lamp.

I was born,
kicking and screaming,
on an island of rocks,
where the ice flows fill the sea.

Mereological Nihilism

Eyes swirl up from the dust
and watch it sparkle in the emptiness.

Heads rise still black from the plastic veil
and push into the noise of:
traffic moving,
girls gossiping on the sidewalk,
of gulls saying ‘life, life, life!’
descending over the dirty street lamp,
and all around the music is playing,
factories humming fog, cars beeping, sirens, bottles raised,
heads alight with alcohol,
ears afire with jazz in a salted glaze,
minds driven by eager madness -
even in the silent spaces fires are teaming
white dwarves sucked into a giant star blasting light
into the windows where babies suck in the world
growing and growing
in mind,
in madness,
in natural and unrecorded rhyme
pushed by the wind of thought
the dwarf circles the giant,
lets loose the fury of parts and time
while a single gulls drops
for the last sign of food as the sun goes down
shrieking ‘rise, rise, rise!’
and the universal eyes listen
in undifferentiated awe.

Children Playing on Peyton's Wharf

How can you dance in such shadows
when the sounds of the dock are like screaming widows
who sit up all night staring at distant lights outside the harbour?


We are the children of the street light,
Who hear of foggy histories,
and know no other God
but He who strips us bare and blinking.

We are the children of empty wharves
swarmed only by the laughter of seagulls,
voices playing obliviously
to the creak, creak, creak of the crumbling wood.

We are the storm that finally rips
our Grandfathers from their graves
into the salt and wet -
the stages so much a part of them,
so little of us.

Weather

No, no, you cannot go,
when the engines of our dreams go down the crumbling highways of experience,
No, no, you cannot ride
in that coughing engine of sound while the reaper does his rounds singing
tide, tide, tide,
and all the histories of our buildings humming
boum, boum, boum,
and the ancient drum of lore rings in the ears of a boy who fights a war we have imagined in our minds and all he thinks of is the
tide, tide, tide,
washing on a distant shore in California.

So let us hide in the morning fury as our faces thaw.

Drek

I cannot write. There are no words of awe or cynical desperation that will do justice the machinery of the world.

There is a child with aids being born in Africa who, having lungs for some cosmically coincidental reason that will never fully develop will die within an hour of his birth, veering wildly about him at the strange shapes and colours with no words for the circles of the eyes or the grossness of light all around him, unable to differentiate what he is and what the world is, blinking and pulling madly at the air.

I cannot write.

Voice from the Innards

To watch the mud as it bubbles up into my weary ears
and starts to gain a tongue.
To watch the fire as it slings the mud around,
promoting arrogance with a burning celestial sphere
as if to taunt the emissaries of thought -
is to know nihilism.

I don’t know what it is about you
that is shouting and is suddenly silent
when you see the fruit of your labours
in the wick of a candle;
I don’t know what it is about you
that refuses to embrace the cradle that rocked you,
even when you were cold and not at all
mocking me with your rocky tongue.

Self-full

It moves like silk on the red carpet
with lions thighs and two hundred earthly eyes
blinking in high definition awe -
and all around it the people are shouting:
“It’s the packs mundusa!”
and he is the saviour.

In their sick lawn chairs
the suited men toast and swirl their glasses,
laughing and laughing,
(the ice cubes like little continents
in a bloodied sea spin maddeningly),
while the trumpets in the band sound behind them
roaring like thunder,
grappling the Earth with entropy.

But I see the streak of red in your eyes
as you rise on the platform you robotic beast,
and I know no one can stop you now.