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Mark McIntosh Feb 10
Into the abyss
I threw green blood sweat
dripping raindrops
other nightshades calling dreams
from improbable plots
I never read

The black gets darker before dawn
stars fade, the moon dips below the earth’s curve
from my obtuse window
grey shapes move into focus
today the sky refuses to allow
obvious sun

The sinkhole gets bigger from a certain angle
swallowing objects and plans
it’s always ravenous
stealing leftovers from my plate
emptying the dishwashing liquid
plates piling in the kitchen

Morning stretches into afternoon
Whirring of a neighbour’s mower
taming shoots
beheading the weeds that started to flower
after the last time
the manual fell into the depths

That night I remember
a day gone by when the veil fluttered
away from my face
clouds parted and a cylinder of rays
illuminated the abyss to show
how shallow it really was
Mark McIntosh Aug 2016
she's there
in the full moon
& the beat of the rhythm

she's there
in the way the music works
like she played those notes

she's there
in the lyrics & how
the words rhyme

she's there
around my head with the sounds
that make a melody

there she is
dancing in death &
still present

a gift you unwrap
passing the parcel
underneath layers

she's there
in the core of a package
& I miss her

& I keep on missing her
but she's there
in everything I do

she tells me
what to do and what to say
as I play

records we liked together
then it's time
to turn off the radio

that she listened to
between the pain from the bones
& the liver ache

they zapped & they radiated
until none of that worked
but she stayed

until that never happened
& nurses attended
in a room with a view

of a sandstone wall
where men sold their stuff
all those years ago

planting seeds that corroded
every part of her
while she crocheted

her way out of some
kind of abyss
that I can't help but miss

then she spoke of
smoking with that lady
who knew me better

than any other woman,
on a night in August
with the moon full

I feel you
wandering through my own

that I can't understand
keep asking questions

without answers
so I type & I rewrite
the story of you

a woman of substance
who makes me shed

for what might have been
but never was
then that final breath
Mark McIntosh Aug 2016
the sad trumpet makes
everything of nothing

a saxophone riff collects the air
draws on changing moods

dips & swings & halts & starts
changing tempo for effect

finding another layer
of notes and improvised melodies

without beginning, middle or endings
many of all

drums keep the line threading
a piano core

conducting with fingers & nods
painting in blue
Mark McIntosh Jul 2016
glow from the back light
stretches shadows into dark places
a coat threatens

there's nothing there but
a line that is precise
my shoulder disappears into

the ink canvas
a possum's claws gripping
a trunk

and in the distance
the air thinner
a jet echoes across the sky

the end of a cigarette
another last puff
jonquils stand proud

their night scent
sweetens the breeze
the moon is a

dependable sliver
shining patches away
the glow from windows
Mark McIntosh Jul 2016
dawn turns a bridge orange
puffs of grey dot the morning
sleep heads turn, birdsong
awakens narrow streets of idle cars
skyscrapers come into focus
after a silhouette
horizon of blocks
projected with limelight
onto an empty stage.

later, clouds turned white
the tips of buildings glow
against blue
an early flock dips & swoops
morning currents
brush a face that catches
this ephemeral record
the eye of a camera
records only memory

in the final scene bacon sizzles
eggs  turn into pillows
a coffee aroma guides the cook
scraping toast with butter
the plates layed out
cutlery percussion
a page turns towards yesterday's news
the neighbour's cough
another alarm
Mark McIntosh Jul 2016
sun of muted
the city hidden

crows squawk
the morning rain
commuters again

an endless snake
tailgate red

a jet roars
with its cargo of
weary passengers

followed by another
of metallic wings

everything flying
this way & that
neglecting a puddle

wet sock
begins to soak
a damp shift
Mark McIntosh Jul 2016
a cleansing of raindrops
gently falling
tinkering delicate rhythms
highlight a sunset
through grey clouds
billowing across a tableau
nobody painted

these old walls
for many years
the dust settled
occasionally vacuumed

saxophone highlights
the melody drawn out
like the softest flick
pictures drawn by notes
the lilies are glistening
the backyard replenishes
newer shoots sprout
in spring they shall flower
more than last year
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