Your beauty lies between sheets of dream,
On your eyelids have fallen the rough tears of stars,
There they have taken root like a magnificent oak.

With Every glance I give to you
A leaf falls into my palm;
They are chips of ivory and fire,
They are cut from the edges of glorious desire,
They melt upon my tongue like snowflakes.

Soft, soft, I raise my shaking hand to the memory of you
Long, long I dream of our afternoons
Solid and perfect.

And the image of your eyes
The colour, a Van Gogh blue,
Stolen from that starry night
with a transfer of wine,
sets my heart ablaze.

My curled lips have brushed the beauty of your celluloid shape,
The wind brought form to elegance as it caressed your hair
When the tide brought rhythm to your kiss.

Tonight's moon is a slipper where I will rest your heart,
There I will wrap it in silk and water it with silver streams
Until your beauty breaks through the starlit boundaries,
And as it grows into a magnificent oak,
I shall sit beneath the shade of its bows
With my palms anticipating the fall of a leaf.

Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed  
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.

The rain starts to fall.

To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
        Her bag and telephone
would
match
        but for a shade.

The rain starts to fall.

Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
        the under side of an old mattress.

The rain starts to fall.

Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.

The rain starts to fall.

The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.

The air is cool.

There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.

Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.

Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.

"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"

Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture

why is everything matching?
       (they got off at the same station)

Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.

I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******.

I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.

This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.

The Art of Conversation.

An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.

Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.

The train conductors voice is boredom.

I mistake ambient noise for music.

Beauty wears the cold breath of death
the way a ******* wears a smile.

Is this casual brutality a sign of the times?
Or have you watched the news in the last
24 hours?

The mirror sung a thousand prayers
to the God; now felt forsaken
with 31 flavours to his love.

They pierced your body
with their spears of love
and hung you up by the hair
to dry.

You recite your green finch song
to the deafness of those above,
and they still hold
your lace burdened hand
to quiet your sorrowful heart.

Lay your head upon the pillow
as tiredness takes us both
as the morning rears its ugly head
and the day becomes yours again.

Then raise your golden brow
to the freedom of Night Angels
who know your secret kiss
where all desires roam amiss,
watch yourself seek for home
in the city's barrio's and filth
down *** sodden alleys
where happiness
is spilled.

The Centurions of hunger
who's empty bellies predict
this shift of power.

By these shadows of delight
you don the mantle of delirium
It stretches down
to your wrists
and grows taut by this slip of Fate
your barrier of Morpheus
a tattoo by Bacchus
a scar tissue kiss of Eros.

Your beauty burned like an ember
that puckered my skin
My love wrote a sonnet
in invisible ink.

"Goodbye"
a silver bullet
that is tasteless
unlike your kisses.

And your finger slipped upon the trigger.

She is the shadow that hangs around my door,
who's memories are counted in wine bottles
dressed by the winter sun.

She is sweetness and pain,
both beautiful and broken
both complete and incomplete
in her beauty.

And I surrender.

Her deepest desire,
her happiest Herod that dwells in
crystal coves and voluminous virility
now spun as golden spiders webs
where my love lies, sterling.

There, in your grass a
personal criminal writes a
holocaust to culture.
He spins the Atomic clouds around
mycological skeletons
who hold constellations in their
time scarred jaws.

And there we were, the seekers of a golden dream
my mouth fell on yours, and you took me in.

Humanity is a bloodbath,
that takes you in.
The realization takes you by surprise
and we kiss
****** roses.


She is the shadow that hangs around my door...

You know I wonder
how the Spirit takes you deep.

The passion and the paradise
The birthmark on your skin.

I see they play havoc
upon your milk white skin
And when the fire
of your love
plays cliched upon your soul;

play for me
play my love
play for me.

Darling
play for me
play my love
play for me.

Show the future
and the past
show me love
and death
it's got away with ******.

I hope you saved me a dance,
I watch waters rise ,
but there, and now forever
there is no reprise.

I cannot play
the part dear
the pageant is dead,
empty for us.

But let me take this love,
Let me hold you close
and let me taste the needle
that gives truth before
falsity.

5:00 am - Happy New Year!

I look like I should be a musician not a poet.

"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
      - Charles Bukowski

----

5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.

Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.

Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers  from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.

Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
**** ME ITS WOODRIDGE.

Where even the McDonalds sign is ******.

XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt  illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the *****.
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ***
grinding against my thighs
as I ****** her harder  and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
prim
pink
suburban mouth.
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot ***** spurted against the back of  her throat.
The head of my ****, throbbing as she  gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.

----

5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.

Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
of society.
House lights
Street lights
(and the omnipresent)
fluorescent light.

Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She  sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight  mouth
incarnadine lipstick.

Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.

"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying  to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone  to *******." - The Wolfman.

----

5:52 am - One more stop.

The clouds  are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.

----

6:00 am - Arrival.

Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
incandescently.
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.

Taxi driver  was  a foul mouthed Indian.

4:11 am - The nighthawks are starting to resemble pigeons.

Train station is deserted.
An employee checks the bins as the tunnel fills  with the ringing of a distant bell, heralding the arrival of the morning train.
42  minutes till my train.

I can smell the acrid fumes of the Ferny Grove train.
The behemoth pulls away-
empty.

At least I'm not existential anymore.

There is an installation of a coffin made from old bits of railroad,
"Not everyone makes it across the tracks"
This reminder of mortality is strangely fitting in a place of transit.
The true face of memento mori is  shown.
Remember that you too will die, and everything will come to pass.

It's times like this that make me wish 'The Sound of Silence" was never written.
For its perfection in this moment comes as a burst of pure divine bliss.
The kind you wish would never fade away. But inevitably does.
And all we are left with is a memory of that bliss,
everytime we hear the song (after the first time).
As if we are recalling the curves of an old lover from the shadow of yesterdays gone.
Dancing beneath our fingertips, always out of reach.

Memory is never as divine as the moment that burnt it in.

----

4:29 am - It was ephemeral.

The trainyard announcer has a cultured voice.

----

4:41 am - I fear the muse has left me, beauty fled.

DEAR GOD - PLEASE LET THERE BE A CAB AT THE STATION FOR ME.

Selection 11 gave me the water i desired.
11 minutes till the train.
D.O.B. 11/2
Aquarius,  11th  sign of the Zodiac.

Will I see the dawn rise from the train?
There is no light at the end of the tunnel from where I sit.

Inexplicably: I recall the cool river air that bathed us as we lay naked in your apartment,
the smell of cigarettes on our skin, the evening peppered with
scurrying, fighting possums
that danced upon your balcony.
I recall being inside you.

(Then I imagined you being eaten out
by a woman
her lips inside yours,
her curled tongue
inside your hot, bald
golden ****.)

And I came.
Warm and glorious
my children of pleasure
caught in a latex coffin.
Your heaves of pleasure pushing against my chest
with the rhythm of waves.

----

4:46 am - On the train.

Fluorescent lighting is the devil.
Everything is garish yellow.

We  pull up to the station near where you lived.

Your blue  rose lives in a Chinese vase
and no longer smells
of Marlene Dietrich.