felt strong and weak
like a paradoxical spirit
walking between the lines of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a skyscraper
among all the other concrete mountains
blending in, sticking out
windows open, blinds shut
walls untouched by rain, but
the water still falls in through the gaping frames
and onto the floor
seeping into the surface in patterns of
yes i do and no i don't

felt like a city among many
like one among thousands
like the only one with my mind cut open
like the only one thinking
real thoughts

my real thoughts
have not yet been made material
are they still real?
yes they are or no they're not

all i'm really looking for
is an answer

spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind

felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it

there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter

words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

these are my apologetic heartbeats
i am sorry but i will be late
because my arteries are running behind
and you will get there before me
but please don’t take it to heart
(that’s a pun
to lighten the mood)

nothing but the metaphorical truth
because i speak better in images
and pretty thoughts
and objects replacing feelings
so i can actually hold them
touch them
prove their existence

i think i’ll take this tightening in my chest
and turn it into a rubber band
stretch it between my two hands
and snap it
releasing the tension

i think i’ll take this weakness in my stomach
and turn it into a butterfly
which is pretty generic
but i want it to fly away

i think i’ll take this somewhat guilty weight
and turn it into a stone
grey and lifeless
and pointless
and i will drop it into the water
see the ripples spreading outwards
and touch them for good luck
tasting the tips of my fingers
to alleviate the cold

i think i’ll take this weird emptiness
and turn it into a poem
so i can raise the words up and run my fingers
through the letters
so i can print it and frame it
and smash the glass
and take the blood
and stain the paper
and crumple it up
and throw it down
to prove that it exists

and see if
when i look down at myself
the words are there
the glass is there
the blood is there
the lines are there
and i have been thrown onto the ground

these are my apologetic heartbeats
saying
sorry
but you cannot make us concrete
until you write us down
are you happy now?

black sky, black road
yellow lines like warning signs
i turn my head away
from those flashes of colour
and look out the window instead
at the grey fields of evening

grey fields, grey grass
bulrushes like sentries
and one bird that calls to me from beyond
as if it understands this feeling

some days it mocks me
other days, it lets me speak
and i hear it often late at night
telling me to dry my eyes
and sleep

black sky, soft wind
that creeps through the netting across my window
and sweeps the salt water from my cheeks
while the coyotes howl, voicing what i cannot
and the crickets play their violins
as if i needed a soundtrack to this

and the next morning, my door opens
revealing brown skin and a summery smile
and when the sun hits my face
i feel the cold embrace me once again
feelings washed from my body and escaping
back to my bed, waiting
for the sun to set and for my body to hit the sheets
and for my mind to remember a day full of nothing

and nothing sinks into my tear ducts, opening up
the river, and i cannot for the life of me
remember why i am doing this, but i am
and the black sky watches without comment
as i take the bird's advice, drying my eyes
and sleeping

the sun rises again each morning
and so do i

I am in love
with modern technology,
despite the fact it is cold
& it cannot hold me
when I need it the most,
thinking of
your sweet memory,
haunting me.

That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.

I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.

I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.