At night the boys go hunting buses,
Tight-lipped eyes
Loaded with anger,
Gun-barrel arms
Tattoed at the shoulder
And quarry-stone cocked in their hands.

The finger-high boys
Of corner-store cool,
Snarling boys,
Drinking the dark and unloved spaces,
The public places,
Where they have ****** both grog and girl.

They've flogged the stolen cars for fun
In third gear up Spit Hill
And disappeared in the Wallaby Grass
As the sirens wail
And the cars burn.

Footpath foul round cul-de-sacs
These branded boys
Have made their name,
And window panes
Have felt their bitter
Forceful curse.

And tonight the boys are hunting buses,
In tobacco-black suburban hollows
They're taking aim
And will sleep
Smiling
Once the **** is made.

She speaks to me
And I let her in,
Silently, we converse,
She dictates, I repeat,
She sets a mood
Which wraps me round in certainty,
United, word for word,
She casts the scene
I place the thought,
She guides my hand
And cleanses it with surety,
Observant of my need
To master her,
She masters me.

Throw your blankets over the past, Summer's gone,
And Winter bites the flesh-buried bones.
Wrap up your heart,
Pack it away in napthalene,
The sun now looks through other windows,
Others will have warmth and company.
Light a candle against the dark,
Set a table for one, the night is yours alone,
To watch the shadows on the farthest wall
And question where, and why, love has gone.

The dream was bigger than both of us could hold.
Sleep now. Let it pass. Move on.

We cannot hold,
neither here
or there,
like uncapped perfume
our sweetness will not stay
its bottle long.
Our essence exists
not within this too-easily
seen-through world,
this parlour,
glass fronted,
of small amusements.

An intangible likeness
to the wind which blows
is all our being here.

Time and its torments,
life and lust,
instill in us
both fear and hope,
and perpetuate
this restlessness,
this ever moving on.

The match, once struck,
must burn till gone,
life, like this,
consumes itself,
while the blowing of the end-of
time-like breeze,
enters everywhere
and everything.

He sits with aging canvas bags
Draped around him on the windy quay
Where blown from busy parks he's come
Sheathed in crumpled rags, in skin
Seasoned by the salt and sun.

An old man by the harbour-side
Mincing bread in callused hands
And casting crumbs
To a congregation of silver gulls
Which parasitic and competitive
Move in a constant emotional state
About his feet.

And he beats a slow sad rhythm as he goes
In tattered shoes
Amongst the city's spirallings,
Between the tidal, restless, to's and fro's.
On habitual, familiar paths,
Which only the vagabonds know,
He steers his ragged ship of bones
And breaks the bow upon the parting throng.

The wind is the ghost in the invisible sheet
Which tears these summer leaves apart,
Which pushes the bird into the distant air
Which carries the watching eye away
Down evening's steps, down sunlight's loss
Into blind night, empty, without you,
Where tobacco accompanies these silent thoughts,
These meditations upon solitude,
Which turn in the thickened, smoky room,
Like old mill wheels.

Thoughts of ruined factories
Where the beat and whistle of pigeons' wings
Disturbs the dust where the rye-grass grows.
Thoughts of abandoned country roads
Which shadows lace as darkness falls,
Of a thousand faces come and gone
Down city streets - Thoughts of thoughts
That rattled on the railway memory
Bring the past to present life,
Bring you to me.

You were all the moments of my life's making,
An undertaking to all the mysteries of love,
You held the deep sea's round immensity
Within your heart.
You are this troubled night, this quiet street,
This passage of brilliant memories
Through my mind.
And who would believe?
Like some rare flower
Which all the world is searching for
Who would believe?
That with these hands
You once were held.

Nothing can bar it, my love
Like water through rock
Will penetrate.
I will come back like a flood,
Drowning your nights of solitude
With a sailor's embrace,
And a thousand kisses
I will emblazon across your *******.
I will take you anywhere,
Hoisting your legs up over my hips,
The walls of our house will burn
With the friction of us.
A wild beast thirsting to hunt and roam
Through the kingdom of you
Prepare your madness and your laughter too,
Both at once. I want to feel you entire,
For my hands have grown tongues
And are hungry to touch. Yes - prepare yourself
For my love.