And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Jumbles of jagged jazz jut in through odd nights
To dredge up the New Year with fireworks
Fine December's lunge upon the kind.
Shattered pieces break wine divinely inwards
In memory and boredom
Of sorbent, drenched days.
Where are you?
What's the time?
Old, sore, bent, quenched greys
In fantasies that brought fun.
Scattered leeches ******* insidely innards
I remember once upon a time.
Two dead husks end blue ears with wire ferns
Crumbled into dead glass, cut sinews of time.
Despite shadows, show the finest of my gloom
And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites
Few with enough truth to hear conspired words.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites

Wine and ember's pop up in this mind
Flatters her thesis. Asks for pieces
With crumbling questions
For a crumbling response

So I know
Canines inspire sheep in herds
To let them flee, a poor one
So sore, went the wrong way.
Where are you?

Two men stand where a glade meets a clearing.
They hold their guns strong in the evening,
Shaking shoulders attached to their stern arms.
They pull triggers to **** and cull the calm.
Hence smoke ascends in burning fireless rings.

The forest begins breakfast before and
During and after, with simmering dawns
Breaking like bubbles on the sea.
Boiling to leave a smoke which stretches out
His hand to cover his yawn for centuries.

Two men stand where a clearing meets a glade.
Their guns raised as to secure security,
And yet one watches his father's smoke fade,
Lowers his gun and extends harmony.
So the other shoots and clearing takes glade.

They began on soft hills, hairy with grass.
Their hooved soles greeted by soils, brown and green
That were interwoven in the world past,
Before man, with his hideous machines.
But now they tread between the decayed trunks
Of skyscrapers that scatter their own dust
Over waves of tumid wind. Air whimpers
On its way through the streets of rust.
The voice of ghosts echoes into whispers.
The city is gone. The older, colder days
Before man, stir up slowly from rubble.
The wolves beginning to creep through the grey,
Silhouettes projected through smoke, crumble.
Man is now replaced and where he once stood
Wolves now watch on from, the city like woods.

I know the frost lies thin and leaves grow yellow.
I know my previous foolish things and
Better seasons past with my last actions.
I know my own disgraces, and my shallow
Pooling parts, yet let one thing be mine to know.

I would implore, but I know it's against
Your favour of flavour or simply taste.
So spare me despair with even slightest care.
Thus let your ears slowly hear, maiden fair,
Words which flicker and flutter to convey
In, out and about, through softened air.
Know if it's not too great a disturbance,
We could speak and joke with unseen smokes that dance
And laugh as we smell the blooming lilacs.
To be to the point, it's better I ask.
Will it be harsh electric candescence
That outshines dwindling starlight
Or simply your sweet semblance in the night?

The canvas is stretched out.
In this Bosch I see
Among shades of red
Demon tongues stabbing at me,
Among shades and the dead
Licking through contorted snears
Like leeches leaking into ears.
Years and years and years and years
Of violence and vile and all the while
In these moments
I feel no taunts nor torchure nor torments.

I take myself home. Delicately
I position the record and release.
There I hear rusty metal
And as the night quiets
To a hush
The rush of some Satanic narrative
Gives peace in pieces spiked in falsetto.
With crescendos of Hell
And some false ghost of lost belles.
Then reading Eliot
And sipping tea
His Preludes pirouette
Dismally
And he leaves the world and her people
Empty.

But I am not worried
Nor concerned.
These are the jagged pieces
That fit to my soul
Smoothing to soothe my edges.

On sordid airs I detect
A sizzling cigarette
That dirtily dizzies me.
The vapour shaped and misshapen
As though the pale horse of Death
Is animated again,
Forcing forth from some lung's depths.
The dizzying diseases released
Onto the city street.

Then passing a Chinese window
Cheap honeys rich in flavour
Seem woven with the air.
Wisps of some Summer, lost
Among clustered years
Covered in moss,
Dangle beneath my nose
And rising up
Almost fills what's hollowed.

But I am busy and must go
The city suffers no one for so long.
So I go on
To the city's dizzying smells,
To leave the moment's spell.

The city smells me.
The tunnels and funneling gutters
The nostrils of this grey matter
The network of working, walking
Men, women and children.
It adapts with new technologies
And the conscience of the street
As the street well knows
Controls me.

Autumn comes faintly,
As though it were when sleep, dreams
And first memories of waking
Blur at the beginning of the day.

Charms of Summer
Slowly undone in undulations of Winter
And brief retreats to warmer heat-waves.

Reading on the Ides of March
And the days of May
Here in Australia
April may be the cruelest month
Breeding leaves and weaves of grey cloud
And leaving steps closer to Winter's shroud.

With saps of life
And wisps of nymph whispers
Surely siphoned with scythes of time,
I fear to waste one more of my mortal days
Peering through lifeless greys.