Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
6.1k · Nov 2011
The Oroborus of Lust
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
Crawl to me on all fours, and fix me with those eyes.
Gleaming ivory in the pale darkness.
Suitored to alien mires, foreign environments of crawling dust and spires of simplistic grace.

That we move into.

That we move into as finger pads touch skin and lips and wet tongue tips that grace the very edge of taste itself.

The sonata of flesh has begun as we begin this symbiotic ballet that signifies the end, the start, but not the middle of our burning tryst.
which burns brightly in summer night heat, washing down the walls separating me from you and you from yourself.

Fix me with those eyes once more,
tilt the timer; make the moments slow
And the gas lit beam dance and grow
to our scaly sonata of flesh.

Played without violin
or cello
or trumpet noise
or flute.
But with arms,
and lips
and hair
and bust
and drums.

There are always drums; beating on through the night,
beating their primal rhythm as you crawl towards me,
on all fours, in that oroborus of ****;
symbiotic with itself,
reflecting off itself;
encased in itself.

Crawl to me on all fours
Crawl to me -
And taste of my being.
5.1k · Oct 2012
All Life is but a Song
Lysander Gray Oct 2012
Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose ****
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
4.2k · Nov 2011
Written in Lover's Blood
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
Write me your vows on paperflesh
Pen me your desires in lovers blood
Slip it in an envelope, seal it with a kiss
And I shall trace it, with the same pen
dripping still with lover's blood.

Curve your spine over my desk
And spread yourself open as a book
Desire lines penned upon your chest
Heartstrings bared, across open pages
covered with lover's blood.

Bookmark the chapter of desire
Close the cover in the dark
And retrieve my pen, an empty needle
from ****** page fold.
No longer dripping with lover's blood.
3.0k · Sep 2015
Mountains round her neck
Lysander Gray Sep 2015
She wore mountains round her neck

           (“No, lower.”)

Peaked with scented minarets

           (Softer and sweeter than strawberries,
           grander than a psalm.)

In the gulch between words
I offered you a prayer
and you wounded me with a poem.

I watched you  move
like a summer night
to disrobe the cover
of your collected works
           -a landscape of fire and blood
            that beats a wardrum
            deep in my hungry river.

Your petals pressed against my lips
           to drown , to drown

She wore mountains round her neck,
and I wore her ankles with a smile.
2.3k · May 2013
Brisbane Street Sketch 3
Lysander Gray May 2013
Treasury Casino, 3:03 am. Monday morning.

Casino bars shut at  3:00 am in QLD.

I missed a place to sleep by 9 minutes.
My timing is impeccable.

2 hours to **** until the last train home.

An older man in a slate suit enters stage right.
Reenters stage left with  brass buttons
lit up like embers.

The 9 network wants me to buy
stonedine frying pans.
And warns me about harmful gasses that have killed household budgies.

I wish I was more interesting.

You havent lived
until you've seen a man blow a pancake
off a frying pan.
Onto a plate.


3:12 am.

Late night bar personnel work in silence
cleaning beer nozzles and coffee machines.
They wander in and out of the scene under sophisticated lighting.

I wonder what to do about you, and what I'm feeling.
What our  hold on each other is and when (if) the sword of Damocles will fall.
Is this truly tragedy to which we are destined?
I shudder to think.
And for this am I classed by the title


3:20 am - Existentialism strikes a vicious blow. No coup de grace.

The blackjack dealer on the $15  table has a gorgeous face that makes me wonder how her body feels on a post ****** morning. Satisfied and relaxed, taut through anticipation of further pleasure?
Straight raven tresses frame a heart shaped face that peers over the ridge of a white collared shirt, sprouting from beneath a black vest, tight at the elbows.
She deals with deft machine-gun efficiency. Not all bullets hit their mark here.

Her back curves with natural elegance down to a tight, young ***. The shape of  it magnified by the black business pants writes itself as a factory on my mind. Light hands would fit well there, one on each cheek, her mouth open seductively, trading  tastes and sensations.

There is a dying rose in my lapel.
It's sad.
I contemplate leaving it somewhere poetic but  cant think of a place.
The thorns are still sharp.


3:45 am

The only place where time is invincible
is a place  where it is hidden.
Casino's are such a place.
Here time cannot be killed.
Yet I have smuggled it in.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 4:
Part 5:
2.0k · May 2012
Gypsy Soul
Lysander Gray May 2012
I felt you kiss the edges
of my gypsy soul last night.
You laid aside my armour
So rusty, yet so bright.

All the poets in all the bars
hung by Morganna's violet hair
casting ideals towards the stars
wept when they landed elswhere.

I let you take the diamond
from between my broken teeth;
and laid the hunter to rest
tonight never to repeat.

Our bodies told a story
full of puns and lifeless caricatures,
for the people we once were
that lived within this parchment
of our long forgotten dreams.
2.0k · May 2013
Brisbane Street Sketch 5
Lysander Gray May 2013
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.

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
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
You can watch it spread and grow
with intensity.

Taxi driver  was  a foul mouthed Indian.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 4:
2.0k · Nov 2011
The Melancholy of the City
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
There's something tragic about Brisbane; the city speaks of an older more Romantic time, though the people speak of a newer, modern; more disposable age. It seemingly looks at you with a lost lovers eyes.

Though the city still retains some of its antique glamour; take a stroll down any street in the center and around you will be found the remnants of that age.
Victorian Red-bricks dot the city like proud sentinels, keeping watch over the ever expanding invasion of its contemporary neighbours.
What tales would these monolithic madmen tell is if only we had the ears to listen, who's feet did once trample up the now year-stained wooden stairs, who lived and died and loved and uttered curses and birthed within those walls...and what tales would they have to tell if we only listened?

Ah, gentle reader, you see how your mind wanders at the mention of these thoughts?
The City certainly has its landmarks: the Clock tower of Town Hall, over looking the new modern space of "The Deck" in King George Square, the facade of Grand central station still retaining its grandeur and majesty; now turned into theme bars and a nightclub *****. The old houses littering West End and the ***** of red bricks running like a sepia toned river up Elizabeth Street. And of course the dotted remnants of Old City Life being ever encroached upon in the center of the City's smoke filled heart.

The most curious of these is the impression wrought in plaster and cement, white over red, of a window in the city center, with a set of stairs leading up to a place that no longer exists; 50 feet in the air.
Whenever I gaze up at that window, that reminder of the past, I cannot help but wondre who would be staring down at us, on this date in the last century.

"Suffer them not" I wish to say, "for these people are of a different age, with different Gods and values than you."

Suffer them not, ignore their slings, suffer them not.

I love Brisbane.

It's mish-mash of centuries, its people, the tales of its unwritten past, it seems as if the city exudes both a sense of joy and one of unutterable melancholy.

I'm on the train, homebound now to my modern house in the ultra-modern Gold Coast. This is quite depressing. The freedom, the movement, the chance, the ebb and flow of the people soaked tide of the city is leaving fast behind me as this electric trap with seats barrels under facades and tunnels, with enormous neon snakes glittering down from the peaks of modern and ancient towers and we find them reflected in the winding river like innumerable fireflies...dying and twisting and being reborn in the soft moonlight.

South Brisbane Station.
An immortal Victorian construct, still surviving to this day. The same architecture, the same route...different paint though. This Industrial Relic is overlooked by the shining modern whirlpool of THE EYE, a gigantic Ferris wheel giving you the chance to see the city by air, to one side; and a multicoloured, four story glowing monument to the hairdresser franchise god Stefan on the other...which I dub "Stefan's Pintle".

It's garish as ****.

Passing through the night the train goes ever on, powered incessantly by the ticket payers seemingly endless dollar supply.

There's a strange transition from City to Coast, the outerlying towns left in the dust and wake of one and unsure whether they belong to the other. Places such as Kuraby, Banoon, Runcorn, Altandi, Logan and Eden's Landing.

Yet the train ponders on into the night, as it's denizens relinquish themselves to its discretion and desires.
Yes; the train ponders on into the night...

We slowly pass through Woodridge, one of those last bastions of civilisation, neither here nor there. A glittering town trying desperately to be a city. They have a McDonalds. Yay. These places always scare me, and confuse me.
What are they like? Their people? I guess I'll never know, i've never stayed in one long enough to realize.

Welcome to Loganlea, this is a strange place...the funniest thing about it is the fact that it IS a hole. Yet the sign into it shows a shining beach with palm trees and boldly proclaims "WELCOME TO LOGANLEA".
As you draw closer you realize it's pock marked with bullet holes and rust stains.

A train whizzes past, and we find ourselves reflected in its windows, our reality traveling one way; our ghosts another.
Into the long, pale night, coloured by the stars of a thousand distant streetlights. Like a million tiny man made suns; created to fend of the darkness and keep our fears at bay. We truely live in the age of endless day.

The melancholy of the city is far behind now, it's streets, its smells, its people all gone. As we are lost in the brightness of the endless day and the night grows ever long, touching those distant, far between places with its natural, velvet splendour, running its hand down the cheek of time. For there will always be a night, even when we create days, and the city will always be melancholy, and the coast will always be a glittering sequin on the dress of a cheap, soulless *****.

I love Brisbane.
1.9k · May 2013
Brisbane Street Sketch 1
Lysander Gray May 2013
The silent street erupted around me the moment I sat down,
a thunder rumbles in the distance
but only reveals a passing truck.

The white swan drifts past
without elegance.

I watch the youths drive by on fish lane
as the silent score of stoplights
play to an impersonal audience-
tonight the pizzicato is on time.


The air is dense with quiet conversation
of nighthawks
and the splash  of luck
on a steel  tray.

Elegant servants of style remove the unwanted things.

The air has cleared,
alone again
with two fat asians.

When did boring become stylish?


"It is truly a free nation that offers pancakes 24/7"


Normally, the solitude of wandering a sleeping city would elicit poetry.
Tonight only nothing comes out.

Not the people nor the smells or secret music. Only the flicker  of a dying neon sun assuring me,
that the parking is open.


1:00 am.

A woman in a pink burkha enters a white car, only to be driven off into the night, followed by two taxis.

There are ancient trees twisting their tops through the modern facade. For eras, much like fashion are discarded by finicky time.

They have stood as silent sentinels for longer than I have breathed, and with any hope, they will stand as soldiers long after I  come to pass. These reminders of the ravages of time.

I loved a girl who lived  here once.
She lived in an apartment that overlooked the city
and had  ******* like two soft moons
that tasted like honey.

1:40 am.

Other nighthawks wander as wastrels through the quiet Autumn night,
with a slow, soft  gait one never see's in the rush of day.
If all evenings carried a beat, it would be thus:
a slow jazz drum.

"...psssssh-bop! pssssh-bop! pssssh-bop!...."
would sound the echo of every evening heart
throbbing slow with power.
"...psssssh-bop! pssssh-bop!..."

The car's carry  white  blood cells to  the  suburban arteries.
Taxi's are cancer.

I walk


Cold beer at 2am.

Faintly lit menagerie
an open cage containing

Well spoken Eastern girls
corporate white boys
two old tradesmen,
one on a smartphone with a rosary around his soft large neck.
The antique street curves away toward the river,
sloping up
then down
I follow it with my eyes.

And run them back
to the fairylights.
They hang like glowworms
or constellations.

Glowworms hang like constellations, the inside of their cave  is the same fleeting feeling of being alone with the universe, it being caressed by your eyes.
For you are its lover and its mirror.
Inside the glowworm cave, I felt like the universe and everything reflected  itself in miniature. That to look upon their hanging, blue stars you saw everything else.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 4:
Part 5:
1.7k · Nov 2011
Dawns Genocide
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
Dawn is locked in pastel reverie. A witness to the slow, fleeting genocide of stars as they are burned out one by one. The morning expands suddenly over the course of dawns gauntlet. The traffic and life of all men begins to trickle in time as the heavens die. The waltz of civilisation and Progress has entered its overture. Let us pray the dancers knows the steps. The jazz of night-time has left, only the instruments remain, frozen in morning dew.

Dawn licks up her pastels in a binge that leaves the day a clean blue plate. The scents of jasmine and wet asphalt greet this day; it is the stench of midnight mystery dying in the sun.

Poets have words for this condition; we have written about maladies for centuries.
1.6k · Mar 2012
Lunar Caustic
Lysander Gray Mar 2012
She is silver-nitrate and coal.
An Egon Schiele painting
stretched on dream
and sullen sparking glances
tipped in gold.

It is starlight, burnt through a velvet field
that chains me here.
It is honey and hot wine
that haunts my sleep,
by the onomatopoeia
of obsession.

With a lunar caustic kiss
she hexed me.
Woven in her six-sided circle
those rubies in the
hollow of her neck
and fingers that shimmer
like ice.

The Sphinx of Eros.

That heathen curl.
Smoke to hide the ivory!
Spoke to lock the memory!
Caught in click clack shutters
by the silver foaming pond.
Froth from the chambers of
ebony rough hewn hearts.

O starlight!
That raptures me hungry
for bloodsoaked lips
red as fury!

And I sang;
O lord & commoner, I sang!
To the weepings of a sombre, sudden,
stinging violin,
in empty vinyl crackle
from music soaked in paint,
with a voice
like burning velvet.
Lysander Gray Sep 2015
Let me breathe the smoke between your thighs,
The way a drowning man breathes water -
my Queen of Oysters.

I will sup til hungers end
           the elixir
then sup, and sup again
the banquet of your flesh
with the thousand tongues
of my fingertips and eyes.

This Alligator that hides amongst daisies -
let him sleep in the black garden of your hair

           O concubine of Saturn

Open slow to the brush
rough hands spring petals
that gambol and gyre
in great prickles
the spine and scalp.

Let us run to the moon, together
or sleep til the noon, apart.

My Queen of Oysters,
Let me sleep in the black garden of night.
1.6k · Dec 2012
Jocasta Heartbeat
Lysander Gray Dec 2012
Stone fingers clasp the clay
The mind is weak,
The heart is cold.
Ice to the unknown neighbour
Broken and reborn
As a phoenix
With cute desire
As stone fingers clasp the clay
That creates new worlds
New identities
New beings
New desires
New babes.

Clasping their Jocasta heartbeats
Holding it tight
As another pale dawn covers
The empty cobbles
Of this home
And you face the new day.
1.5k · Dec 2011
O Caesar
Lysander Gray Dec 2011
Time and the sea stripped gold from his face.
Caesar lay in ruins on a burning velvet bed
round him danced the debutantes and believers.
His sullen chamber lit by his burning velvet bed.

Through his window, mottled amber and blue
passed as shades long lost. All that remained
of Caesar, as gold was stripped from his face
now framed by a brilliant half moon;
A memory sent foreign on bitter tides.
An ode to America.
1.5k · Apr 2013
Youtube Haiku
Lysander Gray Apr 2013
Just ******* Nelly
and **** a fat **** Pitbull.
I want some Nick Drake.
Youtube ads. I  need say no more.
1.5k · May 2012
Thousand and One
Lysander Gray May 2012
I see the recollection
of a thousand and one memories
in the faces of strangers.

It is written
in the burnt out shellac
that write's the gospel
called ideal.

Upon all the waifs
that wail
on wainscotted walls
is visible a weary shade -
A woe begotten word.
That same ink
that wrote the scar
on a thousand and one faces.

It shone to eyes
of the right size
calibrated to the light
by a snowflake.

And once seen
O misbegotten dream!
Hours of amphetamine rooftops
under golden stars.
Mornings alight
with the free realm of jazz
which floats on hazy gaze
that constitute fields
of a thousand and one degrees.

Now not seen.

And is it carved
in the sweaty freedom
of a drunk?
Constellating crystal beads
pour to eyes
gray and sunk
with the wisdom of a prince.
With the stench of a skunk.

Brace yourself
for the wind does come
that marries wind
of heart and mind.

And behind it all
you see it now;
in the thousand and one faces
of the free
the bold
the meek
the drunk
the lost.

The recollection
of a thousand and one memories.
1.4k · Jul 2012
Lysander Gray Jul 2012
Empty glasses sit like soldiers at attention.
8 wide, 10 thick;
ranks for drunks.

The business of boredom
beats the barmaids and patrons
into service,
or subservience.

We are watched over
by flickering eyes
which could
at any moment.

Loneliness is a half-pint.

I'm glad my glass is full.

I'm glad the barmaid wears checks on her stockings.

I'm glad the barmaid reads.

I'm glad the economy is ******,
so economists have something to make them feel interesting.

I'm glad the ******* found feminism;
instead of Jesus.

I'm glad for the sad eyed, gray haired drunks
that live off Marlboro Red's and dream-fumes.

I'm glad the roof is stained with memories:
an old box of pills.

And I love you because you're a *******.
Lysander Gray Sep 2013
Once we were panthers,
sleek and powerful
embroidered in the silks
of midnight and dawn.
Passing the reflections
of city windows
as all bare streets
gave us their throats-
Tasting of blood and love.

And then the morning went away.

The dust settled with a silent thunderclap
the open streets closed upon us
with a wall of eyes,
We reached our hands forth
and touched nothing -
but the ivory shadow
left by
daffodils in death.

The day the morning went away.

We poured our questions
into the water supply,
we drank the mix
as the night rolled by.
It painted upon our minds
that we were snow coated deer
and soon we took their form.

We never made love again
we simply locked horns
until the roosters call
called us to stop.

For to make love
became a *******
and to **** without mercy
our golden seduction
into their secret submission

The day the morning went away.

Your perfect stranger
became your perfect enemy
your perfect enemy,
your  perfect friend

and you were silenced by the thunderclap
you were silenced by

the thunderclap.

My little panther
afraid of the quiet thunder
afraid of the doe eyed stare
that cuts you from the mirror
cuts you right down
to the bone.

I watched you place
your tiny
lipstick to the corner
of your eyes
and manicure
your perfect
stag horns
as you brace yourself
to step outside.

The morning mist
comes into your lungs
and you exhale
a liar’s hello
to all below.

The day the morning went away.

Our ebony coats were hung up on a nail
we once were panthers
now our hearts are meek
we once were panthers
we once chose to seek,
now we flee at the sight
of moths dancing in the
summer light.

We once were panthers
we once were panthers
we once were glorious panthers.
1.4k · Jan 2013
Lysander Gray Jan 2013
I scoured countless streets
For an exorcist to rid me
Of your ghost.

The neon charlatans
Shapeshifted through
The spicy summer sweat
In forms of wasted witchery
And white hot shots of snake oil.

Each a silver bullet,
Swarming upon me as vultures
To peck the stains of yesteryear
That lingers like the promise
Of cool autumn air.

And now that all evenings have shrunk,
And all shameful charlatans revealed,
I find myself once again
Dancing with your ghost;
A man haunted.
1.4k · Jul 2012
Pub Poem 1
Lysander Gray Jul 2012
The cover band plays a tirade
of songs we all heard before.

They switch to originals;
which all sound the same.

Originality is as rare as a dollar in my pocket
and just as likely to be spent in tastelessness.

She wore her dinner loose - more of a greasy pub lunch.
******* harder than diamonds in the open winter heat.

Not hungry anymore.
1.3k · Dec 2011
The Huntress
Lysander Gray Dec 2011
The huntress emerged
swathed in fur
a thousand coins in her pocket
from every distant coast.

Gold capped and exotic
stones beneath her feet,
the scent of blood she did smell.
Once more into the fray
Once more she roamed.

I wondered at her meaning
and how she came in furs.
Was the huntress laying her sight
next upon me?

Would she ******* the penetrator
to watch it sink beneath stagnant waves?
The blood and whiskey feeding fish
as she once more emerged
swathed in fur.
1.3k · Dec 2012
At the old hotel
Lysander Gray Dec 2012
At the old hotel
the one by the wharf
with the peeling paint
(those clapboard memories
that linger as summer does)
we traveled to exotic lands
foreign for these travelers.

Our fingers were the compass that led the way
for two fugitives sailing silken waves.

Your hair was morphine
in the sweetest way,
Your lips were like ice
on a hot summer day.

We never questioned the reasons why
the afternoon crumbled us into dust.
Yet I recall the handful you took from me,
and you recall the teaspoon I took from you.

On the pier I was cast to the wind,
and on the shore I let my passion burn you
into a diamond.

1.3k · Mar 2014
I found myself
Lysander Gray Mar 2014
Through the nights
of alchemy
and the religion
of your touch
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the eyes of those who seek
for fame or infamy
that climb the ladder
for trust and security
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the rustling of leaves
that heralds your approach
and the sun that turns
its gold to the storm
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the haze of city lights
that silence the moon and stars
and the sleep of the streets
abandoned by foot and car
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the vast abandon
of the pleasure dens and bars
that sell relief and ecstacy
to the dusted and the ******
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the *** of angels
that call forgiveness after saints
Through the empty street
which shares your name
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the passing of time
to the breadth of now,
and the passing of the babe
from mother to sow
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the sacred and profane
and the knife of your beauty
upon this honest name
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

Through the slavery of man
and the freedom of nations
I found myself perverted
I found myself free.

I found myself.
Lysander Gray Jul 2013
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 **** 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.

a silver bullet
that is tasteless
unlike your kisses.

And your finger slipped upon the trigger.
1.2k · Nov 2011
On Every Lazy Sunday
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
Come now as the Spring Breeze
Kisses our pale flesh
As we lie post union.

Feel the moment
Feel the ship of time
Watch as it crawls forth
From passions depth less harbor.

Raise your head to the light
My night child
My pretty
My darling
My sweet

As cool spring breezes
Brush over us with their lips
Golden and bright
In the afternoon sun.

In the golden, afternoon sun.

Lay here a while

Feel it now
Feel it soft
Feel it blow over our embrace
Whilst soft toned breezes
Stretch the time we hold
In the palms of our baby-skinned hands.

Hush my love
Hush your heart
Stay a moment
Feel those cool kisses
Planted fleetingly on the ***** canvas
Of skin
As these tides ebb and flow
In time with our blisses.

Touch it now
Softly glancing
As our hair is sent
Like tides on the cool ocean shore
Of time-pregnant moments.

Impregnate out skin
On every lazy Sunday
Since the shared time began
Between Cupid and Psyche
And the coals of Hades
Cool softly
In the spring breeze.

Lay here a moment.

Lay here with me.
1.2k · Dec 2012
New York Summer
Lysander Gray Dec 2012
Lay with me, darling
Within the New York summer
And hand me softly, a Gershwin kiss
Under celluloid sky.

We will dance, you and I
Beneath the bridges of central park
And we will sense
The Broadway skyline.

Frames pass by unseen
With imagination and ideal
Burnt into their core, as
The music of a thousand orchestras
Start our fandango
As we fall in love
With the freedom of tomorrow.
An old one. I've never been to New York.
1.2k · Jul 2012
Local Rock Stars
Lysander Gray Jul 2012
Strumming like a metronome
the feeling sinks like yesterday -
or Tuesday
maybe even Sunday.

It's all the same.

The days end in Y
and God still sits on the *******
reading Newsweek.

If he runs out of paper,
I pity the Watchtower.
It might come out with
post traumatic stress disorder.

Self awareness is the currency here
but all the mirrors are smashed,
or covered in grime.

The question remains;
When you're not sophisticated enough for here
and too sophisticated for there,
Where do you go?

I love the security
of the way we drink tonight.
I love the ambiguity
of the way we say hello
and the manner in which your taste
like the first drop of wine
sets my standard on broken edge
and my teeth are praying.

The roses in your eyes
the truth in your lies
come from the same place.
Lets just hope you know this
the way I do.

I wonder where the local rock stars
get their rhythm,
if they didnt pay for it
they surely stole it
from Bob, Simon and the rest.

Never trust a man who doesnt drink,
when he ***** a guitar into song.

You can hear it moan and crackle
as its heart seems to crumble
there in his sober hands.

If only I knew what he meant
by this adultery
he might make a dollar out of me.
But since he coats himself in mystery
a poor man pays not a cent
for a taste of his $2 life.

The Big Bopper got *****
by the ghost of Heath Ledger.
Somehow I think it made him smile.

I'm Not surprised;
all shock has worn off in subtlety.
1.2k · Feb 2013
Weather Poem
Lysander Gray Feb 2013
The sweat on my lip
brings this barometric memory
of heat and flesh
to the forefront.

Two fronts,
a Summer monsoon
where pale lightning plays
through reefs of golden cloud
circling an alabaster cliff
humming like live wires
with soft and hard design
with rain and sea spray.

The curve of your back
is a horizon.
The lines carved on your chest
are highways and slipstreams
above which gulls wing and wheel
below which mysteries are concealed.

And I sigh like thunder
to the softness of your storm
and I sigh like thunder,
to your silver screen embrace
I sigh like thunder.
I sigh like thunder.
1.2k · Aug 2013
Train Sketch 1
Lysander Gray Aug 2013
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
with black
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
        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.
1.1k · Dec 2011
Rain and Sleet
Lysander Gray Dec 2011
He sits at the window;
His back to the world
His back to the rain and sleet
His back to the dying street.

From across the way I peer at him.
He does not know I am here
He does not care.
That dark figure framed by light
That rests across the street.

With courage I crossed
And came to meet
Only the king
Of rain and sleet
As I crossed the dying street.

And all I found were lowered gates;
Barricades of christian steel
And the dying monarch
With silent death peels.
I wrote this in a pub on the inside cover of a Penguin book. I looked out through the rain and saw across the road, a figure framed by light in a distant window.
1.1k · Nov 2011
The Ghosts of Autumn
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
On tattered wing of memory
Came the pallid Ghosts of Autumn,
Those solemn gaunt's of Autumn
Swept swiftly in to chill the day,
Their faces long and glum
And coats long and gray.
Down to take the valleys Czardom
Claiming night and claiming day
Rode the gaunt, gray Ghosts of Autumn.

Those thrones were overtaken
From the sundered Summer Devils,
The lordly Devil's of Summer.
And we have not mistaken
We who live in the lands of Almer
Know the cost of war is taken
From father, son and daughter.
As we await the return of the forsaken
Crimson Devil's of Summer.

For soon will come the chilling
Ancient Kings of Winter
Those savage Kings of Winter
And no blood will thus be spilling
As our logs turns to cinder,
As the Kings will then be killing
For vanity and splendor,
The shades of Fall will they be conquering
Those ageless, Kings of winter.

And from the Gaunt's essence
Shall rise the Maids of Spring,
Evergreen and supple Maids of Spring.
To pass the Winter King's defense,
Sans iron and thunder, these lovely things
Will woo and exhaust their frozen senses
Then silence and ****** the Winter Kings.
And Almer lands will grant happy commends
To the glorious Maids of Spring.

Yet these are but forethought's;
Soft now approach the Ghosts of Autumn
Those mild, soulful and solemn
Beautiful wraith's of Autumn.
Soon Almer shall be sought
By Kings, Maid's, and the Devil's Ransom
Our hearts shall ever be owned, but ne'er bought
And we will pay our lords so handsome.
For now our land shall be rendered and wrought
By those gray gaunt Ghosts of Autumn.
1.1k · May 2013
Brisbane Street Sketch 4
Lysander Gray May 2013
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-

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.


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 ***** 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.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
Part 5:
1.1k · Jan 2013
One Way Antique Streets
Lysander Gray Jan 2013
We graced the morning
after wandering
one way antique streets
your pain and comfort found themselves
unwrapped from all deceit.

All you were and all you are
From your head down to your feet
called to me through rising dawn
stung with personal defeat.
And I wished that you would smile,
I prayed that you would laugh
sans misery or grief,
The way you did as we once wandered
antique one way streets.

And I know you seek redemption.
with an eye locked on belief,
And you know I love the way you looked
When the sunset kissed your cheeks.
I was silenced by beauty then,
my words were obsolete
the poets purpose put away
down antique one way streets.

I cannot write like Cohen
Or Cave, Blake or Swift
but all your inner knowings
held me in the heat
and all I ever wanted
is to never feel defeat.

But this I'll know,
and this I'll want
till time starts to retreat.
If I could take away your pain
as I know you know my grief;
I would hold you as I did that day
down antique one way streets.
1.1k · Sep 2015
The Love poem of Experience
Lysander Gray Sep 2015
My love bird – a carrion crow
Who’s beak reeks of narcissus
           (the scent of thee)

Let me call the black rumble of wings
to fill skies and sheets
with the thunder of your feet.

           (Ah! Love. What A thing it is
           to be feathers on the wall
           and flesh in ice.)
1.1k · Nov 2011
The Rainbird's Call
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
"O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call." Said father to son as the golden light spilled out the fireplace, casting their backs into darkness. "O son, hark ye to the rainbird's call, for when the rainbirds are a-comin' the times are a-changin."

Son's wide eyes soaked in the golden fireplace light and the sound of father's voice.

"O the rainbirds, they's a-comin'. They's call ain't like the call of no other bird. Yer a familiar with the warblings and the cawings and the baying's and the singing's of other birds. The rainbird, he don't sound like that. When the rainbird a comes a callin', you best be knowin' his sound. For he don't warble or caw or bay or sing, on no, he don't warble or caw or bay or sing. He's a makin' a different sound all together. O the rainbird, when he comes a callin' you'll a-know its him."

Father puffed long on a clay pipe, his voice accompanied by the sounds of a thousand night critters a-haunting the outside world with their chitin wings and nightmare fur and ebony eyes, shining through the night. O yes, father puffed long on a clay pipe.

"Son, when the rainbird calls. He drowns out the other birds, ya wont be hearin' no warbling or cawin' or bayin' or singing. When the rainbird a-opens his beak, all ye hear is a marked silence from the other birds. O they is still singing, mind you they is still singing, but that ******* the rainbird, he dun drown them out with his silent call. Son. That is how you know the rainbird's callin'."

The golden light kept a-burning, and the fire was a-crackling as the night was a runnin' over the valleys skies. And father kept a-talkin' and his pipe; he kept a-lightin'.

"Son, that is the sound of the rainbird's call. He don't call much round here in the valley, but when he does, you hear the times are a-changin'. And when the rainbird sings, o son! When the rainbird sings! He BELLOWS! And he SINGS! And the valley will shudder with his song. When he sings, the valley will shudder and the darkness will come, for he be callin' on all dem other rainbird's. And they be comin' and the sky will darken like night and they'll a come, like a cloud, they'll a come. And they's flappin' wings will a-shake and a shudder the valley, and they'll a **** lightning and his brethren, his brothers will a-light down and they be filling the valley with their rain and their **** and the times will be a changin. Oh they be a changing."

Son's ears heard the tale of the rainbird that father told him, son believed the tale father told him. He believed, for the night birds did suddenly fall silent all through the velvet darkness outside the shack, and the air was a markedly different thing from what it was before, and the fire sputtered as the rainbird called. It sputtered…it sputtered…it sputtered.
1.0k · Nov 2013
Lysander Gray Nov 2013
We are the eternal marriage
Of blood and mind.
The saints in their rapture
Ne'er held eyes as sweet
Nor hands that unearthed a homecoming.

But I, lost among the found
Stranger in A strange land
Have but the dawn to spin for your veil
And each star forged in the host of man,
Will take your cheek only to gift a kiss
Upon your lips.

With surf stained sigh
These are the dreams
In which I sink
And tomorrow you will think of me,
And tomorrow you will think of me

As I remember
These leprous hands
Which once danced in
Betraying a dream.
1000 · Mar 2012
Cold's Promise Unkept
Lysander Gray Mar 2012
We pass neath the arms of shadow,
and autumns gaze turned away.
With the air filled thick a promise of winter
Layed true by the albino commissaries
that float listless abroad.
Ranks in gray/blue/white.

Slow through pass they are revealed!
Marched immeasurable in form-
By pearly hand of Christmas Kings.

Whilst low round the cavern pass
Forked lightning roared all round us!
Forked lightning soared all round us!
Under heat of wastrel march.

And we all flashed out blackened blades!
flanked by ancient everglades!
Defeat! Defeat all cold and shade!
Slit and slash their marching grade!
Impossible was their victory made!

Soon we sprouted victory wreaths,
Of strange and seeming wonderwood.
For silence hath taken
winters pearly rings.
And death hath taken
their princely king.
Lysander Gray Apr 2012
Shall we count the hours
you rimmed in gold?
Awash in wine not sweet but sour;
no warmth shall be brought
to this day ever cold.

In your heart I sense a loveless pyre,
burning bright in endless night;
No climbing sparks leap up these walls
No constant lover will grace these halls.

For you, oh shade!
Oh graceless within your ***
Now seek to drown;
I, within your waves of play
And no such 'write
will come to say.

Within your head, your heart and artless mind;
Nought but a mirror grows.
Nought but darkness holds.
And in that glass of strange design
You hold your fate,
but never mine.
983 · May 2013
Sketch 1
Lysander Gray May 2013
The quiet servants to  a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off  time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.

Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black

A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.

The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses  of our  modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by ***.
They wait.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.

I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it  encroaches this space  as
her gaze encroaches the distance.

These streets were once filled with the
of wasted  youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
wonderous world.

If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then  our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
of waking.
21/5/2013 - Surfers Paradise, 7:30 pm.
970 · May 2013
Brisbane Street Sketch 2
Lysander Gray May 2013
Treasury  Casino - 2:30 am

From my seat in the smokers section
I can see the Brisbane eye,
the river,
and the  performing arts center.
Streetlights  are mans answer  to the cosmos

"Everything you can do,
I can make better."

Once it was said that we were made in God's image.
Now we can safely say that God was  made in our image.

I am in a quiet place of the universe, the night stretches on
visible through the stately
carved of old wood  and sandstone.

I am in a suede armchair, winged for pleasure.
The ceiling in this room is twice as high as an ordinary room.
Circular steel ***** hang down like a path of bubbles
left  by a leviathan.

My water was poured  with panache.

Let me set  the scene for you:
I'm in the  Treasury Casino, this building was once the QLD state treasury, it never changed really.
Sitting next to  window that overlooks the river, a glass of water sits to my left. The room is the size of a double garage, maybe bigger. The floor and ceilings are made of old wood, the walls are decorated with a transparent gray fabric that remindsme of smoke. An old marble fireplace sits in a wall studded with tiny lights that resemble stars or candles. Above me is a series of hanging circular light fixtures that resemble a trail of bubbles left by a leviathan.

This room was designed for,  and houses opulence.  
The TV plays Eminem.

Peter Garrett dances like a Parkinson's sufferer.
And looks like Disco-Nosferatu.

We have  killed the night
and neon power
and infomercials
**** the romance
once held
by late night solitude.
I was trapped in Brisbane one evening from 'round midnight till 6am and kept a journal of my experiences, thoughts and rambles of the night in a stream of consciousness style.

Part 1:
Part 3:
Part 4:
Part 5:
957 · Dec 2011
Foreign Shore
Lysander Gray Dec 2011
I coiled around  your coast
and gazed at the foreign shore.
The breakers, they did break
and the sirens they did call
to the clipper upon that fallen, foreign shore.

Were we sailors then, you and i?
Or were we shipwrecked?
I think we were shipwrecked.
The mast lay rotting in the waves.
Rope and sail- strewn as a discarded scalp
Upon that foreign shore.

I know the day of leave,
As i know that sirens call.
And I felt the breakers
and the hidden stones that rose as black teeth round your coast.
The wind pulled forth and we did nought to stop the pull.
And crashed upon your fallen shore.

Now we are castaways;
outcasts upon this isle.
Now we are foreigners
on this foreign shore.
946 · Nov 2011
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
I could lay you down
and breathe your hands.
I could brush the dust
from your eyes.
And I could hold your moon in my palm;
A junkies palm,
the scarred hand of Judas.

But that would not make you happy.
You wish to hold me
within your glass house gaze
and to touch my soul
where hands have never dared.

The game will not be played
by your rules,
once the **** is a queen.

In your palm you held the ace of Spades
but it was a losing hand
to your filthy heart.

And the dealer delt away
Whilst the jokers laughed and joked.
And they held their stigmata out
for the babes to see.
But they only saw flesh.

With a needle dipped in ink
she wrote me a stigma in italics.
I can still see it;
In the moving daylight,
In the roving daylight,
In the shadows of light
on a palm.
933 · Feb 2014
Weekly Happenings
Lysander Gray Feb 2014
Great Shamrock specials
walk around town with a sandwich board ringing a bell-
if music be the food of love -

Alex Pike
Free Camping
A half price indulgence now open
plant identification skill for
another wet weekend of cricket.

"Hi, I'm Steve your carpet care man!"
"Well the skies cleared and the game started,
didn't look good early, but that is what happens in Dorrigo."

Last week the Eastern Wall of the Catholic Church was vandalised.

Chan's Chinese Resteraunt
beyond the rainbow.

Loving partner of Lance (Dec.) Aged 91 years.

The complete lifestyle package.
Cut up poem from pieces of the Bellingen Shire Courier Sun.
Lysander Gray Dec 2012
The murderer and the killer sat
Across from one another
On the banks of the river Shambhal.

The killer said:
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; my own.
My victim's; their own.
My ripples stop without a stone.”

The murderer sat in silence.
He drops a ruby into the river Shambhal.

The killer continues,
With a quote by Johnson
That speaks of man toward man.
“He who makes a beast of himself,
Gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

The murderer stands in silence.
He drops another ruby into the river Shambhal.
And walks away in silence.

The killer laughs,
With a hyena cackle
And wraps himself in a cloak
Woven of mirrors.

The murderer turns in silence.
He smiles with knowledge
And speaks with tears.
“My actions are my own.
My kismet; twofold
With victim and self.
My ripples are not stopped
With stones, or banks
or time or thought.
Brother we differ;
For your's are the actions
Of Caine.
And mine are the actions
Of Hamlet.”

The killer sat in silence
On the banks of the river Shambhal.
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
Your tenderness spread from the flesh of bitter fruit;
it razed the ground it was born of.
It is the beating of a wardrum and the shadow of death.

And I found myself at the end of a rope
without the aid of drink or dope.
In my hand I held a note:
A confession without a sound
brought me to my knees.

When the day is too hot for coffee
you find the fog wont lift without it.
I am there, groping at the Thames
Without your hand there to guide me.

Her fingers carved a melody
Wrenching it free from the depths of pain,
and the bottom of white horse hooves
sank beneath the waves.

Whilst Lady Godiva sat by the window
and gazed out a heartfelt glance
at the children in the gutterand clothed her ***** villainy
In silk and ermine fur.

And under the weeping tree we left each other letters
that cast aside the discarded uniforms of youth.
Lysander Gray Jul 2012
Airplane coffee
tastes the way we think
hospitals smell.

Single reading light
will not help any of us
with inspiration.

Red Curtain hiding
the captain from the peasants;
he has control.

The blinking light
glows like a fire fly does -
Where the **** are we?

White walls like sea shells
so high but I cannot smoke,
lets hope we dont crash.

Big man with tattoos,
I make a bet with myself:
I think he's a ***.

The window open
No stars and I cant see ****,
should've flown ******.
(they have music)

Pale legs spread open
I feel the hunger rising
nom nom nom....nom nom.

I wish I could smoke
**** coffee not worth 3 bucks,
I wish I could smoke.

Man asleep near me
I can see up his nostrils,
I want to poke him.

Beeping wakes the man
long fingers open bottle
pops importalt pill.

Bored beyond belief
how long till we hit Melbourne?
Better Keep writing.

Big man with tattoos,
shaved head with eyes like satan
carries sequined coin purse.

Thousands of feet up
getting the hang of haiku;
we're about to land.
891 · Jan 2013
The Sensuality of Wine
Lysander Gray Jan 2013
The loneliness of bars leaves me wanting, the beauties walk in, silent, and I'm taken by the sensuality of wine on a warm summer night. Your scent comes riding on the wind, and I pause for effect or rapture. I don't know which.
881 · Jul 2013
Lysander Gray Jul 2013
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...
879 · Nov 2011
The Endless Night
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
The endless night stretches its arms wide and long to the edges of twilight.

The air is soft and fulfilled with the scents of earth and mystery as above us all, the stars burn with subtle intensity and hellfire. Like the Ghosts of ancient Gods; kept alive by waning thoughts in their prisons strong as eggshells and high as romance.

The cool longing rides the breeze of time. It feels like freedom is at hand and this morning will never come. The day is locked in it's grasp; held at bay by our obstinate refusal of it and the midnight jazz that crickets and owls make. Everything is cool and seductive in the way poets cannot name. It is infinite and pure, like the second before a new lover's kiss and it is omnipresent in the way mysteries embrace.

Long live the endless night, long live the freedom of now.

May we find words to sell to poets, so that this time between worlds can be expressed.
Lysander Gray Aug 2013
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.
Next page