Colour me in and erase all doubts
That we're not living the life we ought to be.

Thoughts from a mind full of longing
Have suddenly been subdued,

I forgive you for not loving me.

My mind has been settled.
I am finding peace.
Peace within myself,
That i had hidden for years.
But now. rises to the surface,

Emerging once more in your shadow.

5:00 am - Happy New Year!

I look like I should be a musician not a poet.

"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
      - Charles Bukowski

----

5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.

Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.

Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers  from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.

Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
FUCK ME ITS WOODRIDGE.

Where even the McDonalds sign is fucked.

XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt  illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the balls.
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ass
grinding against my thighs
as I fucked her harder  and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
prim
pink
suburban mouth.
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot semen spurted against the back of  her throat.
The head of my cock, throbbing as she  gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.

----

5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.

Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
of society.
House lights
Street lights
(and the omnipresent)
fluorescent light.

Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She  sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight  mouth
incarnadine lipstick.

Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.

"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying  to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone  to fuck off." - The Wolfman.

----

5:52 am - One more stop.

The clouds  are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.

----

6:00 am - Arrival.

Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
incandescently.
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.

Taxi driver  was  a foul mouthed Indian.

The quiet servants to  a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off  time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.

Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black
rippled
sea.

A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.

The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses  of our  modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by rum.
They wait.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.

I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it  encroaches this space  as
her gaze encroaches the distance.

These streets were once filled with the
flotsam
of wasted  youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
wonderous world.

If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then  our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
of waking.

he thought it was

not the centre of

the universe.



titanic.



came by chance.



i think you will

find it is sir.



it is the little things

that make it so.



the tears of all my life,

with yellow.



the colour of the day.



st david.



sbm.

flowing like water in a hillside river
your words pour from your mouth
and form cool pools of liquid good vibes in my content ear
i cannot fathom, you have the tangled pathways of my mind mapped out,
your feet know just were to land and where not to stand
i know because your words are pure reflection
of what my inner thoughts are begging to hear

your eyes are the light moon in my dreary midnight sky
your tongue the soft flame that lights my way
your breath so warmly sweet and fresh it is the only thing my aching lungs will accept
your hands bleed colour back into the black and white melancholy my mind has grown accustomed to

i love you (but i hate how i need you)

It's been a while since we drank wine,
On the borderline somewhere between love and great desire,
I was a miser, a pauper in the ways of romance,
With space in his heart for two but a want for one.

You were the elegant lotus flower,
Unfurling each delicate petal of venomous beauty,
I was taken aback with what I may never know,
Your eyes like none I'd ever seen before,
Possessing all the wisdom I need in this lifetime,
I stood shaken, a stray dog in the rain.

You beckoned to me to dance across celestial Babylon,
But in my haste and in my darkest hour to date,
I procrastinated and that glorious morning sun returned,
Ripping down each pathetic colour from the rainbow,
Until my whole world fell grey and limp,
And silence dawned upon my heart and I was then,
As I am now, alone, and so forever I shall stay,
'Til death do us part, my heart and I.

He's bending down to shove some glitch through his veins
The flattering colour blends in
His flesh is covered with days from before
remembering how his seed always used to ask for more
There's a window showing a gap of the world
the world he used to live in before he got bored
Tired of seeing, tired of always being down everyone's core
He's better like this
like a cherry tree, always in bliss, always in bleed, never sure

All the drugs he could fit in his lungs were never enough
he could never stop
But it sure felt great to always be on top

for Alice

seen from the terrace above
this rectangle of water
absorbs the variousness
of the late spring skies
changing incessantly
from folds of uncertain cloud
past brief appearances of blue
to the sudden closeness of rain

the preciseness of it
this rectangular pool
set in an oblong garden room
on a terrace the middle of three
that fall away to the valley’s end where
up and through and which a funnel of trees
climb to the tops the very heights today
severe against a modulating sky

yet in the camera’s eye
this horizontal mirror
is a painting fit
for Le Musée d’Orsay
a season’s accident no less in
light and growth and colour
where the chequered strings of
toads’ spawn and darting tiny fish
are brush strokes come alive

kneeling on the stone rim
as if in prayer afore
this reflecting space
attentive to what seems
between what is
this woman holds within
her perfect hand the pond
photographically framing
its image as it moves and stirs
across her gentle gaze