the world ends tomorrow

in a moment of weakness
i break you down.
i don't care if you're
a slave to your juices
or the serpent's jacked
your mind or the
world ends tomorrow.
it is an 
irresponsible sky
that watches over
our dark acts.
i move too close
and your wall crumbles.

what the crow sees

entwined like fire

brightly

playing nightly

dancing lightly

on my head bone.

slap my face and 

tell me

what may well be

what the crow sees

with my eyeballs.

stolen from my

daydream

by the big stream

cant hear me scream

not my voicebox.

cant hold back this

feeling

sends me reeling

puke at the ceiling

i need some sleep.

on flow

cut me deep with carnal knowledge,

tear my wounds, old and new

to find the vein of ashes i contain.

spill them on this page.

channel whatever thunderbolt it takes

to have me shaking with the rapture,

dancing above my earthly bonds

and gravity as my nightgown drips

with the extend of my levitation.

take the particular difficulties i face,

spike their dismembered heads

then mount them around our perimeter.

make me a cautionary tale.

follow the trail and find me silent,
fill me with your tindersticks for kindling
then strike the match that sparks the rage
that takes on this whole damn catastrophe.

any muse would choose me but i want you 
with your wicked knowledge and gothic inclinations.
we have a smoldering love, a fire that tends
itself as i feed the wolves and howl for your attention.

i am braver than you think,
i am as weak as you leave me,
i am as putty,
i am yours, take me.

on flow

cut me deep with carnal knowledge,

tear my wounds, old and new

to find the vein of ashes i contain.

spill them on this page.

channel whatever thunderbolt it takes

to have me shaking with the rapture,

dancing above my earthly bonds

and gravity as my nightgown drips

with the extend of my levitation.

take the particular difficulties i face,

spike their dismembered heads

then mount them around the perimeter.

make me a cautionary tale.

any muse would choose me but 

i want you with your wicked knowledge 

and gothic inclinations.

...to be continued.

fresh

there are no words

to fully describe

fresh humans.

not soft, though softness

comes closer,

not angelic, though

cherubs float as

i hold you close.

not other worldly because

you are definitely earthy.

wrapped up in a bundle

as long as my foot,

bean like,

a seed.

chest to chest

breast to breast

we draw each other in,

plant ideas

make promises

watch them wriggle

and bat their eyelids

at the sun.

i see a road,

a way through 

the forest that may

have wild flowers,

deep shadows

and big red wolves

but as a fresh human

you know

we will make them our allies

and our inspiration.

will you have my hair?

my eyes?

my misconceptions

and pretendencies?

the clockworks are wound,

the teddy bears and rabbits

are ready sentinels

as you wish upon stars

and dive into life

surrounded by hearts 

that will always be yours
to draw on.

the night

tonight is an inconvenient moon
pushed aside by clouds and rain.

tonight is a night to be out if you
have to, but only if you have to.

tonight is a widow's walk.

tonight brings out forces of
instinct and survival and 
assessing the risks.
you must assess yourself
on nights like this to ensure
you are not lacking.

you navigate the night
with urgency and with purpose,
cocooned in the knowledge that
forward is the only direction.

the space around you is small
but the night,
the night 
is infinite.

chance

in between thunderstorms

the steeples have

a chance to rest.

take a moment...

my breasts

too big to be contained

so you

take them

in your

hands

cupping up the

base before you

paste on the plaster.

take a moment...

the plaster

wet chalk works the crevices

concealing from sight

but not from touch

dripping tickles

smear

this isn't like

icing a 

cake.

take a moment...

lying prostrate

with the weight of white

a crater landscape

on my torso

my nipples spike

at the idea of posterity

plaster casts

more than the truth

lasts longer than a moment...

howl if you must

take me now,
while we're dancing.
tear the flesh
from my neck
with your talon teeth,
sink them deep
in my breast
for my sweet meats 
lie within.

show no sorrow.
scoff my entrails
with abandon and
plunge deep into
my carapace to
gorge upon my marrow
before the palsy happens.

wicked is this sin,
from canal urge to
cannibal, within
this body 
lies the secrets of
the visceral. i lay 
them at your table.

on insight

"an insight like the flight of birds:" sylvia plath - love is a parallax.

insight like a flight of birds,
like beauty, elusive.
the sounds are there, more palpable than words
insight like a flight of birds.
what chains must break, what piece of fate occurs?
breathe in the light, seek the air inventive
insight like a flight of birds,
like beauty, elusive.

be careful mary.

the jacarandas are back
and everything is 
blooming wonderful.

(be careful mary!)

the first purple flowers
signifying time passing
and continuity,
the survival
of the seasons.

(be careful mary!)

bluebells are like
seashells in the landscape
of childhood memories, 
you recall the games played
but not what happened earlier.

(be careful mary!)

stare, glare 
at the branches but 
chances are to be
seized or stolen and
no one's gunna
let you through easy.

(be careful mary!)

on irony

the ecstasy
of irony,
nuanced in pain - 
fingernails on the skin
within the cerebral.

taking on
the impossible 
exists,
throws stones
then turns to
the vapour of the ghost.

glean what you can,
pick up on the
exquisite distances
in the crosshairs
note closely,
tantalise,
because
the ultimate irony
lies in death.

distance

at the edge of the brave stage

the water's fine.

"come in" he said

by way of invitation,

waving his hand at normal.

"but the water,

it comes and goes..."

untroubled by the

fragility of nature

the others crowd around

the rock pool,

content to paddle.

always too far

they say,

waving.

the limits of elasticity.

moon crow delirious

coming up for air,

fighting survival

is not suicide

but another, darker place.

cracked land scares me

with its back breaking

potential, and even elastic

has its limits.

it is a landscape

of other stories

outside of my window

where joining in

is metered out

so as to avoid suspicion.

there are gaping holes

that require covering,

pending rationalisations

that grow teeth

over time.

in laying it all

at my feet

the ground becomes

unsteady.

villanelle

he is the epicentre of the earthquake in my bed
timber stiff he shakes the base of our whole relationship
i wake in fright to the rocking of the naked marble man.

spitting vivid pictures over heartache covered floorboards
tilting over the edge of fuck knows, manipulating sorrow
he is the epicentre of the earthquake in my bed.

my own nightmares quieten, my vampires hover
and the judgmental dead snigger their noses into their hands,
i wake in fright to the rocking of the naked marble man.

in the dark we fuck hellishly to fight off black fantasies
but when the quiet comes and the devil jacks his brain
he is the epicentre of the earthquake in my bed.

only the shadows know and they're not telling
what satan's song it is that makes him dance this way,
i wake in fright to the rocking of the naked marble man.

the light switch breaks the spell but i'm still held
in his sweet and sour voice of the unattainable,
he is the epicentre of the earthquake in my bed
i wake in fright to the rocking of the naked marble man.

fucking cat

fucking cat's
fucking hanging around from the
fucking neighbour's place
fucking giving me the
fucking hairy eyeball while i
fucking eat my
fucking tuna sandwich that i'm only
fucking eating because my 
fucking doctor told me 
fucking tuna fish was
fucking good for my
fucking brain chemistry & would
fucking smarten me up.
fucking cat's gunna
fucking get it when i 
fucking work out a
fucking punchline.

triolet

with trembling bones we dance lightly
while angels watch over the show
waving arms and shuffling slightly
with trembling bones we dance lightly
on our feet the mud hangs tightly
to those who hold the catwalk glow
with trembling bones we dance lightly
while angels watch over the show.

the nature of ghosts

the back beats
of my depression
are the cello
and the knife...

         i'm having
         dagger in the back
         fantasies again
                     
                       because

                                  it is the nature
                                  of ghosts
                                  to not remain
                                  buried.

                                   

& other lazy gems

discovering my secret shame is a covert love of country music, the irony & sideways narrative, the subtlty & the pain.

walking into the thrift store it is not so much as first world citizen donates to charity & gets something for the priviledge as please take this burden off my back & nurse my wounds.

the rose garden will always be my santuary with its funeral demenour & prickly answers to sensitive questions.

ethnics sweep the mentals from the headlines because sickness in others is easier to face than the dis-ease within.

that's fine

he wooed me with stories
of scoring in russell st.
took me through the
intricacies,
the eye movements
the under the tongue 
and jaw dropping 
activities.
told me he didn't need
a tourniquet
because his veins were strong.

he told me the thrill
and the fuck the world
personality
it gave him.
that's fine,
everybody makes their choices.

he listened quietly
to my observations
then told me where
i was wrong.
that's fine,
everybody has an opinion.

clean now,
trying to find his
place in the world
with words,
lots of words.
that's fine,
connection is how the race 
survives.

courting fever

courting fever
like it may choose
another over me
he fulfills my wishes,
taking me to a
fetid dreamscape
where it is
dank tropical.
dark clouds fill
my periphery
as i float
on refraction,
glide through time,
deaf to everything but
the crackling intensities.
i am wracked
with unbidden explosions
as i fall into the
broiling cauldron.
begging for relief i
just cannot seem
to let you go

spent

spent
the doggies are doing well
but the cats are suffering.
there is no time
like
milk time
curdling on the brow
because you give me fever.
the feathers don't work
anymore moonshine?
nothing,
i got nothing.

touched

i'm jealous

and inspired

gutted

you'd want me to be.

you originally

scared me

taught me

took sexy to a new level,

you were not brave

like a pioneer

you were a raw roar

you were all raw.

you were art

and in my heart i knew

you were giving all

you had to offer.

you dressed for success

pouted loud enough

to be heard over all

the other boys in town.

rock warrior to the end,

shake on you crazy diamond.

chrissy amphlett. australian made tour, perth 1987

sometimes

because sometimes love
comes in strange costumes.

because sometimes love 
makes bad choices.

because sometimes love 
slips through your fingers
and over horizons.

because sometimes love
has you swimming in honey.

because sometimes love
only partly masters
the intricacies of
the human heart.

because sometimes love
smells like comfort,
and connection
and protection.

and sometimes, if you're lucky,
love finds a spark to start 
a happy ending.

the pitch drop experiment

eighty six years
and counting
the drops.
eight.

like the fall
of an apostle
this mishap
is yet to be 
witnessed.

calculated
callibrated
anticipated
shy.

solidly fragile
looks like forever,
feels like inspiration
lying in the belly
of science.

so when
a solid drips
there is no alchemy,
no magic,
the only thing to change
are our perceptions.

http://smp.uq.edu.au/content/pitch-drop-experiment

only the good

it was a very poetic moment

when she raised the skillet

above her head,

bared her teeth

and swung balletic with

such momentum

he could swear this time

she would actually, finally

take flight.

it was a familiar dance

where he would read

a thousand nightmares

in her eyes while

she spewed profanities

and lashed out at the world

a screaming banshee.

in a theatre of war she

would have been a general.

the battle, he knew

was inside her head,

private,

not for him to fight,

so as he retrieves her

tiny frame from the floor,

kisses her forehead,

tells her the war cry

he knew,

"only the good die young baby"

and hopes in his heart

that it isn't true.

swallow the stars

turn a kiss into
something wicked,
make chemistry and desire
transpire to a time
of great flaming.

touch me roughly,
lock your fingers
to my flesh
in a way that is
frightening and 
marvelous.

forge the chains
and break them 
in a forgetting of
everything but lust.

take my breath away.

nothing can shake off
the dust but passion
will wash our mortality
to the bones. then 
when all is raw and sated
we swallow the stars
and start again.

dinosaur love

it's a dinosaur love
so we smash passion
and furniture
around the bedroom
and over the kitchen table,
presenting comfort
carnivorously
we fight for food
and eat for strength
to fight and fuck and find
the truth in our anatomy,
in our fragility.

it's a dominant love
where you are stronger
but i know what you want
and how to give it to you
as i wrap my tongue
around your lizard brain,
finding the primal
and triggering instincts
we are knotted 
to the seasons,
our shudders are like thunder,
the undergrowth crumbles.

and the elephants get jealous
of our dumb love
our doomed love,
waiting for the great extinction.

special electric and the survival of the species

the stillness required

to handle that special

electric pain that

comes from the chaos

of the universe

should be learned

in a buddhist monastery.

 

you master it not

all of the time

because sometimes

you need a reminder

or to sneeze.

 

and it may all be

pavlovian nonsense

but eventually,

because the species

must survive

you see the purpose

of the special electric

and the idea that you

are its master

and not its servant.

finding

in stations
you may struggle to
find the right platform
but you will always have
a destination.

on buses
your destination s set
and you find it easier
to remain seated than
stand in the vagaries
of moving traffic.

on a bike
the power must be yours
or you find yourself
going nowhere.

in solitude
nothing's gunna stop you
and nowhere is sacred
in finding the way
home.

i confess

i confess

sometimes i hold

the flame under

my cupped hand

a little too long,

but i've got to keep

the homefires burning 

somehow.

i confess

sometimes i fall

a little too hard

down the mountain 

of you.

i confess

sometimes the first step

is one too hard 

to navigate.

i confess

sometimes i let the 

wrong voices sing 

my song.

i confess

to old habits,

new beginnings

and opening

to the moment.

diamond dave

putting 2 & 2 together
i don't so much
come up with
a recipe for disaster
as an escape plan.

face your demons

it's late o'clock

mopokes pronounce

with infinite clarity

and the air is so still

it feels like

a catastrophe is coming.

it is.

there is travelling for

a purpose and travelling 

cos the devil's at your hind

and you've nearly made 

your mind up

but the street demons

that you summon turn

out mostly to be

first world guilt with

little combat experience.

you decide it's alright

to return to your

previous life,

suck it up in a way 

that ultimately avenges

with success and 

stockpiling the 

weapons

inside.

dancing in damnation

beyond belief
is where you send me
into the flames
is where i wanna go
i've danced with the devil
and his will is strong boy
i'm dancing
i'm dancing
i'm dancing
i'm dancing in damnation.

it isn't fair 
and it isn't love
and it isn't blessed
by the lord above
so let's get carnal
let's get raw
we're dancing
we're dancing
we're dancing in damnation.

tomorrow isn't talking
and the past has had its say
we need a new religion
to keep the bad at bay
we're dancing
we're dancing
we're dancing in damnation.



it's like we're almost perfect
when we danced around this way.

coffee smells the blues

coffee smells the blues
while i teeter on the edge 
of the cup in an unsteady 
resemblance of the myths
we tell ourselves.

coffee smells the blues
while i apply lip gloss
and flirt with the impossible.

coffee smells the blues
while i contemplate wrangling
happiness as a way of
avoiding the opposite.

coffee smells the blues
while i remember your scent,
it's a more powerful hit
than from any fist.

coffee smells the blues
while i revel in the
everyday madnesses
that are still so comfortable.

coffee smells the blues
while i trust that the future
is strong enough to hold me.

advice

i've taken to the punching bag lately,
advice from a friend, that may
or may not
have been a veiled insult.
meh.
whatever.
just
he'd wanna watch out
after i've done 5 minutes,
then 10 minutes,
then 15 and 20
as advised,
after i've kept that up
for a number of months
just saying,
when my abs have tightened
and my biceps start to bulge
and i can pack a good punch,
he'd wanna watch out.

channelling annie

i'm channelling annie get your gun
grab your peacock and your leathers
turn on a word for a place in the sun
sink into its orange pleasures.

grab your peacock and your leathers
the intro is over, the spotlight is ready
sink into its orange pleasures
strum a beat and make it heady.

the intro is over the spotlight is ready
strutting electric lights up the stage
strum up a beat and make it heady
time to plug in to the collective rage.

strutting electric lights up the stage
i'm channelling annie get your gun
time to plug into collective rage
turn on a word for a place in the sun.

detritus rising

i read a story once
about the culture 
under the carpet,
an undulating subcontinent
of unnamed life forms
and malevolent entities
waiting to take me down.

the life forms under 
this carpet are
spectral abominations
chained to the past 
with the ivy that
haunts my nightmares.
i blanket them with
the detritus of my life.

the thing is unlike
the story, where
everything is wet
and festy, my ghosts
are dry, crumbly relics,
they crackle underfoot
like a skeleton of a
dead leaf, or of some 
small creature.

and maybe it isn't  a 
covering but an uncovering
that is needed,
as i look around and 
contemplate cleaning
the detritus rising,
at opening the cave
to fresher entities
like sunlight and
folk dancing. and
vacuum cleaners.

cinquain

it's good,

the boundary push

of working to the form.

saddle up monkey mind and run

the lines.

this kind of chaos

the manic ant creatures
are dancing to bowie
even though they don't know it.

the clouds are dancing too,
but faster, on parade.
i know they're going further
than i have permission to ride.

the possibility of dancing
strikes me as funny, until
bowie hits my hips
and outside, in the sunshine
is the only place in the world.
and dancing, with abandon
can answer many questions.

it is just this kind of chaos
that draws the endorphins,
a relief full of irregular beats
and right now i'm a puppet to life,
and bowie, and dancing.

while you were sleeping

while you were sleeping

i tried to go about my day,

tried to separate myself

from the miraculous 

umbilicus

wound around space

and over time

that connects you

to me.

while you were sleeping

i went to work to earn

my dancing shoe money.

while you were sleeping

i cursed time and space

and hemispheres and gravity

and everything that separates

you

from me.

while you were sleeping

i tried not to think of

happily ever after

and horses in the hamptons

or the adirondacks.

... but really

i want to flawlessly step

into the fairytale,

i dream of a seamless

transition from cinderella's 

stepsister to being the beat

of your prince charming heart.

with a sense that isn't literal

i dream of flying through 

hemispheres and 

surfing mountains,

i want to grab hope

by the gonads,

demand a pay off 

for my endless devotion.

while you were sleeping.

these boots are made for kicking arse.

opening my attitude in

the opportunity shop

they fleeced me for a tenner, 

for the leather, but not fine leather,

and just my kinda high.

i wear them to kick arse places

where they keep my cool

and know just when to release

from the sticky carpet.

they know how to keep the beat

from sad tunes by seedy songwriters

to screaming jesus & his vomit clan posse.

they form a posture that holds

me rock steady in the steamiest 

of situations.

stomping makes them smarter,

they remember who, what, where, 

always ready to defend injustices,

they are more than a metaphor

with the soul of the boxing glove.

two

this story is starving,

hungry for words 

to fill in the details.

     the thunder in my head...

skeletal anorexic

running on treadmills,

shedding axioms and idioms

     when you say yes...

that only feed the voracious 

need of cryptic words and

and corpulent images.

     and take my hand...

shedding axioms and idioms

running on treadmills,

skeletal anorexic

     dumps its rain into my underwear.

to fill in the details

hungry for words

this story is starving.