for the other side of the bed.

catharisis is a quick fuck and a song about alcoholism. the house stinks of chastity and I am slowly getting naked with the dirty stove and the overflowing compost. strip teasing the leaking taps till each wasted drop resembles tears.

when you finally cried it was a silent sob. the kind made by children in corners or housewives at sinks. I wanted you to cry for mercy, to call out with the same passion that escaped you beneath closley cut fingernails and baby teeth.

a love that knows no boundries
cannot be written in these lines
clearly this is not that kind of emotion.

you tiptoed through the closest chasms of intoxication.
you held control within your breath as you looked clinicly at the edge
never once contemplated jumping.

I never forgave you for being
the kind of person who couldn't move me.

detailing the devil

Yellow is the softest shade of melancholy. The hue of both dawn and dusk. I slide down the edge of the afternoon. Roll off the roundest edge of the moon.

Requiem for a summer

The wind imitates Warumpi band songs and the concerns of anti nukes protesters. Blows hot and hard like the breaking of celibacy. Threatens to dump renegade wood in the yard.

The days turn like chained dogs. Snarling heat licks my heels. Pushes me back on my bike. I am uphill and panting, reminded of last seasons dry river bed crossings and nights alone with the stars.

I wear time like a costume change. So quickly rooted in these stone mountains. I am. Technology relays his memories and aspirations of salt licked landscapes. I am the salt on his skin as I speak of water and red dust. My souls are cracking and I reach for the salve.

scratching up the dirt

my heart runs marathons. hitchikes through the nighttime. catches lifts in clapped out cars.

I am sparring with jesus. burning my fingers on the steam blowing across the ranges. holding my breath till my lips change from red to purple in imitation of my surrounds.

the soil is damp. leeches under my fingers. scratched into hay. i am thigh deep and recycling decay. i erase the memories of fortune tellers. my perspective flicking like cards. i wax pictorial and wane lyrical. eclipse my expectations as the telephone rings.

with oscillations
with hesitations
manifestations. gestations.

hazards lights a cigerette.
suspicion stubbs it out.

rationalisation

The juxtaposition is surreal. unreal. too real. right here.

Storm clouds lick the macs again and I am sipping beer, almost cold as the sun reflects off the ghost gums and we talk shop as big as supermarkets. I am beyond those old times when each success was a sour grin. Basked and baked till crisp and sweet. I am no longer running up hallways.

Invisable hands like market theory. I move between this thought and that. The fire is well burning so I throw away the kindling. Search out something bigger than myself.

chopped vegies

Tiptoeing through the borderlands. Pushing sustenance around my plate. I am sorting through the rubbish deciding what can recycled or thrown away.

Wet feet and overflowing cups. I guzzle too much wine. Oscillate between boredom and overexcitement. Address commitment phobias between changing gears.

Practicing my leaps. Taking up ballet. Climbing the diving board. From this height it is impossible to tell if it's a wading pool or a ravine.

river beds.

The sand melds with the glass. Shattered offspring cut my feet. We do not think of it as silocine as we push it against our breast.

The ribbon of lights uncurls above me. Those ancient explosions reaching down to remind us that our lives are fragile fleeting messages of hope.

What have we learnt in the lifetimes they take to reach us? Is their memory a refraction of ours. As satellites we only revolve around gravity. Attraction is the physics of life.

The coals drain the last of the evening. By dawn the world is flooded again. I am reminded that dreaming is darkness. That we only go inside when we close our eyes.