dj-goodwin-1
Australian
Writer from Melbourne who enjoys psychedelic trance, a perfectly made cup of strong tea, meticulously prepared in a piece of fine-bone china; several indicator lights blinking in unison; sitting on the beach with a beer at dusk, watching the roaring waves turn from blue to black; beach houses; and the curve of a woman's neck. I also like tacos.
Retail-hunter gatherers pick
clean processed bones, digging graves
with their shiny teeth, studious in
their reveries as they drone
past worlds dumped in the thresher;
the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped
gore splayed lustily before the managers
wound tight in Machiavellian design.
A shepherd herds his flock of
wreathed iron back to its pen, its
skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by
swords flung from lambent eyes of
pre-dawn’s shunting chariots
Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats
chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes
of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting
colours to float through archipelagos of
paper towel and chocolate blocks past
the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic
wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of
perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen
ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while
Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like
nightshade—slutty and serene—coating
shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the
shelves reach their arms out for more.
The check out chick hatches
a sense of déjà vu as carrots
and biscuits drone towards her
mind berEFT of any twitching
sense of POSsibility that wised
up and flew this leering coop and
deep in her catalogue of grey folds
something stillborn and waxen is
perched on gleaming steel, reeling
out her guts like cassette tape with jerky
nightmare arms and laughing like a
banker watching ***** films, mornings
dull cerise an invocation through
auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble
with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Your eyes gulp down milkshakes of galaxies;
clusters of God’s Christmas lights he forgot
to take down, you tell me, stretched like
gossamer skin against the roof of time
without end as you howl, spinning through
the breath of pooling waves in particle showers
of joy, the ghostly hue of dawn hovering
suggestively just beyond the curve of the world
and you laugh at the speed this pretty rock
is hurtling through yawning nothing as you
shout challenges to the monsters roaring in the
deep.
The primordial soup inside your head is cooling
now as shadow waves curl like butter across the
alien toast of hard packed sand and you sit
offering up prayers to Pisces as morning feasts
on the stars.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
Word called this file
Document18
and it’s funny to think
I have that many windows
open.
Funny to think how
that many thoughts have
leapt from the tank
dripping in revelation and
so sure of themselves
they demand a pristine
white canvas
untrammelled by lesser words
where they (think they) shine
like white hot stars
but are only so much
cheap gaudy neon.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
‘Bring me the horizon!’
she cried, eyes raging
with a terrible joy.
Bring me the light
of a thousand searing suns
and explode the bliss into my soul!
Let me writhe in the ribald heat
and simmer my flesh
in love complete
for now is all and all is now.
Fell the birds from crimson skies,
facsimile their lullabies.
bring me songs from Heaven’s stage
to shimmer in my gilded cage.
Floss my feet in clouds so sweet
as sugar spun across the sky.
free my dreams from out their seams
and fall into the blinding light.
Surge with me to silver stars;
to glinting worlds that
twist and twirl
and sparkle from afar.
And join me in Elysium;
the Eden of Nirvana
where Love strokes Beauty
and the air purrs with pleasure.
Stay with me forever
and pulse with joy unfound.
but never dip below the clouds,
for monsters wait
upon the ground.
======later======
‘It’s all a lie,’
she murmured,
guarding her cup of winter tea.
‘I’m sinking, and the mist is drinking
everything that’s good in me.’
The colours start to leak,
the world bears its teeth, as
shadows crowd round and
join their hands.
This opioid mist of requiem
hides demons loosed from out their den
I sit and slowly swirl
drowning in the silken shadows
of muttering dark worlds.
It drags me down in furtive heaves
to somewhere I don’t want to see,
but somewhere I know I believe;
with meshing, hungry razor teeth.
It’s a solitude of sorts,
pervading though it seems,
filled with plotting cohorts
laughing deep in silken streams
that leak into a Sea of Grey
housing horror on its tides,
in-bound now, with rotted sails,
cover me and let me hide
from needle-sharp torment
and callow moments put to flame.
I sit here counting down the hours
until I’m born again.
So eviscerate my fragile faith
and leave it for the saints who stay,
awakened to the mystery
of all the mouths could ever say.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
You smile black-eyed as
the city belches blue neon
through its steel-glass canyons;
a cobalt factory of lumen, pulsing
through dendritic labyrinths
of sapphired circuitry.
Diodes of cerulean fire,
spreading with virulent sophistry
amid the glittering obsidian dark,
like pale horses of light that
leap from pane to inky pane,
like a Pentium’s ******
God’s own seething fireworks
watched in reverse
as they float in through my car window,
strobing blue against your freshly
washed hair.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
Greeting the skies as
The fires arise,
We contribute our own,
Burn them down, to the bone.
And as zephyrs are hurled
‘Cross the heavens unfurled
We abandon our
Persistent Friend;
Leave him deep in the Dark,
Where the World
Won’t distend.
As Enraptured Eyes
Drink velvet skies
And rockets soar
Within,
We paw at the heavens
In sixes and sevens
Dragging them down
To engorge us within.
We build our own logic
In towers of toothpicks
And laugh as it crumbles
Into clarity.
We scatter its ashes in
Serpentine splashes,
Cresting drunken peaks as we
Shimmer like freaks.
Giddy we run, with palms
Full of sun, falling to nature’s
Verdant embrace.
Through swords of green
We join at our seams
Rising and falling,
Our sanity stalling, as we
Lustily chase what we seek.
And at the dying of the day,
We linger, happy, small and fey,
Reeling and ponderous
Sated, and wondrous
as sun cries its light
through the leaves.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
The steel monster rumbles,
then sways
with resignation.
Forever trapped in
timetabled precision;
suburbs
to
city
and
back
again.
Sunlight splashes warmth
on tartan dull and drab
while
single mothers shift their gaze
avoiding confrontation,
as stained-black gum watches
from below.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
Air congeals
with a baby's cry.
Spray paint proclaims
that you don’t
****
with HCB,
*****
Darting eyes of venom
warn against complacency
as iPods beat
hard-house hits
and lyrical dreams
of somewhere else.
Masses lurch forward,
brakes screech with agony,
waiting for oblivion
or 5:17pm express
as city succumbs to night.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:47 PM UTC
Death can come in the night
like a storm
or sometimes
in the form
of a 747
ploughing through your office window.
Or death can fall
from above,
from seemingly serene blue
with measured precision
on
families cowering in ruined remains.
Death could even
make your acquaintance
amid the dark, laser-lit world
of cocktails, bass and
****** pick-up lines
because someone has
finally found
something worth fighting for.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC