Meaning
f
a
l
l
I
n
g
like sparrows in silent wind
like leaves in seasonal flux
again and again….
into the violent dirt
inflamed mud

where we pity the worms
and their empires of clay and mortar

a pomegranate a jewelled pagoda
moving and centralised
cyclic and stagnant.

Everywhere, I do not see
directed untowards
magnetic poles.
Agni-metic people.

The sparrows song
in underwater caverns
startles ripened ears
(wrinkled, warn, and walled)
between dogmatic slumbers…

ertras, I can hear you
»»»»» —————————————-»  [you]
where?
f’-> : {inside euclidean halls}

meaning, falling
passageways toward
nothing. [frameworks]

-oliver and jonte

First, a lonesome rider comes gently
murmuring in the dark,
riding a white stallion into a bang.
Second, the sweet chaos of quarks…
play fighting like children                                              
on a trampoline.
Third, the life and the love
of unthinking minds, and of molecules meandering
  along our DNA, adapting.

Then the sensing things
      find their place; crafting geology,
   time and taste, into a land of empty waste.
All impressions teeming, ideas wild, dressed
   in sterile suits, this is the reaping
upon the fearing eyes.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,                          
Mirror, mirror, on the wall…
I ask you, one who knows them all
   who walks like Jesus, bathed and masked
into the cave where upon we ask
Who is the fairest of them all?

And in these moments of ferocity,
bright like burning Pohutakawa trees,
     I cower beneath the fury of the sky.
In the timeless and fragile imagination,
I ponder teething things, creeping                                  
   and making their way to Matilda’s
earthly paradise. Take me now;
oh raise me, spirited Fig,
to enlightenment.

Though in my awakenings, whilst light
               finds entry to the eyes
        through a liquid sand,
    I wish all the treasures of the lands
  ka whawhai tonu ma¬tu,
ake ake, ake!
   I wish to find a nightingale                                                  
    with its blood drenched upon a rose,
    staining my withering suit,
  as I pass from fascination
into gentle death.

They say studies show
the reason for reflections
of Christmas lights on windows -
It’s the particles, they say,
that shoot like rocket ships
through the air,
bounce off surfaces
then grip
and reveal their tricks.

We have not yet travelled past Mars
but we have grown wide
and far between
each other, on acid trips
with life long friends
we laugh at the stars
and in book clubs at 4th and Alma
nestled in a quiet apartment lofts
discussing the sacrifice of Éponine,
we too are caught in revolutions.

But it still seems
the pop songs are the saddest songs
to sing on Karaoke nights in city bars,
where a million lights refracting inside
my heart swell and surround
the drunk glistening eyes around me
swaying to and fro
to “She loves you
yeah yeah yeah”

In these times of indecision,
we are thrown into delicate plans
and intricate decisions
about the cracked peppers
in kitchens alongside
peppermint flavoured chocolates,
and I wonder,

though you are stabbed in the neck
with stories of existential writers,
I hope you come out of it all,
with an air of desperation,
or an inclination towards revolution.

Then again, I do not see this
red orange feather dancing
through the sun strokes between the trees
for no purpose other than the momentary
grasp towards these possibilities

So I now imagine,
is it here again in no time
to doubt these transparencies?
Would it see through this
chaotic night without prejudice?

though still tamely, timid feathers dance with flowers
and nowhere is nothing so calm ,
elusive, -

Near the surrounding sea
I lie in the sand; somewhere
else beside the drag
of the water waves.

I see no kingdom here;
no fantasy of mowed grass gardens,
small brick fences with oiled gates
and tightly trimmed bushes of Rhododendrons.

I see no impressions here,
to the subjects cosmic eyes,
of perfectly ordered existence

overflowing like
carefully layered, plucked and picked
lavender petals pouring
over the cliff garden.

I see twisting things overhead
and the tangling of the light
through the air to the forest floor

Oh hallowed moon that follows the Earth;
your plight is not unknown;  I swear
by the fire of Hades breath
and the pull of the heart to the heart
take me, take me now…

I am alone in the sand
turning to glass.

“Ah Palinurus, you were too trustful of the calm sky and the sea.
So you will lie, a shroudless form on an unknown strand”

The streetlights dawn at dusk
like imitations of the sun.
And the perfect flowers of the
perfect garden fronts enclose
and curl their eyes within.
And we close.

The twilight tears of night surround
the somber sights and sullen sounds.
The single hearse goes by, goes by
blackened by the starless sky.
As watchers watch with their dark eyes
not afraid to cry

and we wonder why
the earth is in rotation
but there is no
revolution.

Oh the dive and the descent…
for the waterless, washed out years spent
on nothing, shedding petals like flowers
on the dirt

are nothing

but straight lines on refill pad.

So, I’m sorry to all of you
But I would rather bathe in the sun-sewn air
streaming through the bronzing leaves
than breathe the air
of your sordid torn tomb
where your heart aches
like a desolate sun
in the dry, withered realm
of reason.

Now the road is vacant
and they have nothing to see,
so the docile dozens on the street
with their frameless figures there
stand and stare, unaware
that the heart is a shape
and the soul is the sky...
so today we fly.

On weekdays,
privatised ******* trucks
disguise our secret fascinations
and shift the scraps
of our failed dinners
into piles of decomposing waste.

Welcome to the city,
there are buses on the hour.
Better grab a seat before
coffee stained tattoos
covered by sweaty rags
absorb up all the loneliness.
Where do they all go to?
Who eats all the bludgeoned bodies?

Oh, book the saturated dinner table tonight.
I feel like saturation.

In the weekends, somatic mutations
reveal themselves, for if I,
speak, like, I can speak,
then I am not speaking to anyone
save for the flowers. Oh, so
hurray, the garden blossoms again!

But I mean, in the end, I maintain I am
writhing like a centipede in a dryer,
tumbling between hot air, screaming
“Help me! Help me! Where
has the humanity gone?
I cannot even capitalise
first names! You must forgive
my lack of morals!”

“Hello”
“I am here!”
“Hello?”
“I am here!”
“Hello!”
“I am here!”