By the piano and the violin
An old man sits with a grin
On his surface, a vague monologue within.

What were weeks trail into obscurity
Long after, as I forget
All the memories
That crescendo and pirouette
In the moment, then die in minutes.

I still tell people about those days,
Finally, as this age fits this nostalgia
But they were better than this malaise
Of dry haze in dusty jars.

What were waves of fluid happiness,
Foaming with fun, then threatening with collapse
Or simply a kiss,
So soon after pass
To dunes of stationary bliss;
Slowly eroding to some shapeless mass.

Again, the violin and the piano.
The hours slow and years go by
And finally what all young men know
He feels inside.

Sarah breathes with an extra word
One that isn’t said but is heard.
With a voluminous sigh
And eight seas reflecting starshine in her eye.
She wears fox fur raincoats and her french has an accent.
She has cursive articulations
And epistolic perfections,
And to you she’s been sent.
As she break lips, to release her take,
One can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
In fact with every word she ever said,
One can’t help but feel enchanted.
With a quick quip, her tongue cut till men bled
As to make even the smoothest choke.
Yet, one can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
If breaking free’s almost a revolution,
Crawling back to her is its completion.
Crawling even closer, ever closer,
There's a higher symphony in her hair,
Playing with strands and strings
And scents of hyacinths.
So one must care
For you've always heard,
She has an impolite abra cadabra
Yet instead the magic word
Must be Sarah.

The weeds weren't feeble, clinging on to stone
And ripping up soil as they were torn out.
But now that they are gone, sit down alone,
Among soft sounds of wind, water and ground.
The leaves clash with colours and two flowers
Bravely bloom with perfumes of late winter,
Early foreshadowings of warmer hours.
The shadows of sunlight stretching further
Close your eyes, with smells of hard work and scents
Of flora. Of fauna, a single bird sings.
Australia's face still, her voice silent,
The night comes to comfort her with ceilings
Of starlight and you smile to see the glinting cross,
Instantaneously feel slowness.

I won't rest tonight, nor will the tempest.
Sound found far off cracking and crumbling Where skies split, like locomotives rumbling.
Unearthly bodies foreboding and foreshadowing
Something that draws near,
Like a tsunami
Careening across the atmosphere,
Polluted completely and impenetrably
By octopus ink and oil
Over vacuum and void.
Stars concealed behind congealing clouds,
With white leaping free in streaking thunderstrikes.
The shroud of night clouds
Over void and vacuum.
I hear further in the distance
Beyond my room.
I hear the thunder echo within me
Down where space is free.

September is somnolent in northern Autumn.
When it’s forgotten and forgivable
To drink shadows of *** and swallow delirium.
But not forgiven nor forgettable.
When one can’t sleep for a throbbing dream and the hearts heavy drum.
For September is slumberless in northern Autumn.

Smell the collapsing splashes of our sea.
Through the night air hear the rip which whispers “Come...”
Sound out to spell a joke in memory.
To no one say, ‘I lost my way but once…”
For no one to hear but our waning moon.

Now know the lullaby of falling leaves
Slowly shows a song of things in decay.
Silently the scythe, she cleaves and bereaves.
While with things in adequate disarray
The moon forever falling towards us
Who never touches nor brushes the surface
Will drift away.

Cry for that pain.
To drink the shadows of *** and know shallow delirium.
To think that things are and can’t be undone.

Here I will take part, for I have before
If or since my path includes to suffer me.
I, through air's hue, weave invisibly
Something I said, jagged and jaded
Spiked and broken, woven with my things
Angered and sad. Fermented by grievance, demented
Thoughts and motions meant to be said
And instead are in this,
My collection of pink demons' chants.
A fool's flaccid stabbing into darkness,
Who tickles ears and who fakes consciousness.

All this my air. Fair evenings
With my mornings of no meaning.
My indeterminate verse that does
Flourish into the key of our sea.
A pretty sentence circling around my neck
Threatens to tighten with each re-edit.

Volts of boredom course through me.
Jolts of energy strike like flies
So I click, click, click my pen quickly,
Then meet with eyes which despise my sight.
What compels them to work?
Scattered, shattered tatters faint
Seeing innards inwards were
Grey and drenched in drying paint.
What force keeps them to this course?
Holding my pen and pain of knowing
The examiners offer no remorse
With that cow's eyes narrowing.
I should rise and rally some revolution
But I won't, I'll just click, click, click my pen.