it's here again
the thick ache of winter
weight of remembering

a hibernating panic
cracked hull of the seed
the Fourth season

a strange winter in the desert
hearts painted in rose madder dye
your laughter clinging like
roots of the Ghaf tree

water, water below
waste not what can grow

sand sweeping across the sand
sand sweeping across the sand

Seasons of idolism, eyes down
Tidal motion of extinctions
In and out, in and out,
Faster, faster

Borne from asymmetry
The present moves
Now towards the median
Aggregation of experience

When can I grow into
The shell of what was

Collecting rain drops
In a glass outside my window

fallen miriad
thought without estimation
saving comes in wanting

and you have no fear of fearful
prismatic expectation lending
glass doors, glass escalators
glossed over faithless

salutation to tribal ending
strict conformity of uniform watchers
every time I speak I waver
dark undertones of contemplation
nuance of repudiation
hollow signs, faded revelation

each asks of every momentary
imperial context exploit
danger of daylight appearance
loss without substance
bursting in betweens of colour
your foresight for memory
uneasy wind riding clouds
riddles pitched angles
you speak without speaking

have you found another cavity of vacant desire?
to pit your irrational infatuation
keep your distance from their soul

Lived this life too many times
Seen it all, cascading minds

You don't see what I see,
You don't see what I see

Have I given it all away?
Have I given it all?

Another fall, another time
Another fall, another time

Archeangel, cindering pheonix
impartial to idols, diguises
want burning want

point at difference,
crisis proxy
of accumulation

swim out to sea,
swim out to sea

fractured, vacant
shooting ghosts in the dark

"The text is typical. It's like a speech whose units mold like a dropping of a secretion. And since he is here a glottic gesture, work on oneself of the language, the element
                                                                         It is the saliva that also sticks units to each other. The association is a sort of slimy contiguity, never a reasoning or symbolic appeal; the goop from the hazard makes sense, and progress pace by small tremors, grasping and suctions, veneer - in every sense - and slippery *******. In the mouth or along the column. "

This house is a melody of illusion,
each world ends at the walls.
The windows are unnatural,
pigeons are blind to the glass.
Outside, they pull at the wires
like guitarists picking strings.
Into the electric nothing,
playing old songs again.
Break of living flickers,
the science of self prophecy.
When I meet myself in the mirror,
I do not see what you see,
the glass unfolds itself on me.

Sometimes love is sharing darkness;
azure, innocent eyes of night,
tender as waiting. Along
trails in city parks, identical
sparks of eternity. It is this,
the farce of identity, that weaves
a veil between you and me.

The unraveling of sophistry,
senseless, fractal, transactions
carved into the ice of time.

Off that windy bay wharf,
where old poets speak to lost walkers,
you dove into aporia

Morality the highest myth
dreaming conquered by Capital
shelter replaced by property
the immaterial, theft by sophistry

a bay carved from jade,
crescent moon.
horizon cradling distant storms

waves upon waves accelerating towards the shore.

Give me some other world to sip at,
this one is diluting.

This is how we dance
A row of tombstones; economics?
Market of waste, reinvent me.

Aligned, invisible, gothic
Encased in amber necklaces
Suspended animation
I will wait for years. Frozen
for renewal.

At every chance, the prospect of lightning
calms the heart.

Wherever eyes wandering  
Nose ring, pierced tongue
Sunshine on your hair

Does it comb you into immediacy?
Temperate, without charge
The uncertainty of fundamentals

Sever tone, ageless crystal
Salt residue on glass

does it outgrow you?
what you knew when you were
        talking strangers
        more familiar than thoughts

now i'd walk for miles to see a friend

cold, danger of substance
weak will of absence

it's so still in the gulleys
as the rivers run

when swimming with dolphins
lost phase, depth of oceans

recurrence of persuasion
the cavities erosion
a pragmatic extension, the neural hyper tension

grace the evening
split precision aching
remedies for aging



repetition
of the alkaline waste

pageants of pageants
fractals and hype
of faceless terrors and faceless
inside
when rain on corrugated iron
when rain and the kettle boiling

i know i have taken too much time
i have taken time from time to decide
to realise i was only wiser before trying.


Patterns of paradox haunt
the terms of all desire

tussock grass on paths
that cuts the thin skin
and sticks

and a view to nowhere

some leaf in autumn

the hope of finding

towards another end
the black sky of winter postures

¬fireflies like stars by
depictions of dancing¬

ochre soil of rock escarpments
flood plains, buffalo grazing
and you smile at me as we’re driving

it seems presence always has a way of disassociating

  I have so much to say
but when you’re attentive it all feels cliché

   just play me piano keys and ruminations

when the storms sink the streets
and drains overflow with branches
there’s always that desire to stand amongst it

Blinking red plasma
kaleidoscopic frame rate

"RED means insane"

"put a silver in! put two!"

The flashing
King of States
holding a minigun

"is that metal?"

"looks like bullets"

"tilt the wrist, tilt the wrist"

a glass of spiced ice
knocked over
sticky floors

"who cares!"

"where was the proximity?"

"what?"

"of rendevoux"

the liminality of spinning



"shoot him!"

White face, wide eyes
clenched hands.

Earth churned and sliding.

A fog on the hill,
dissolving hands.

It rattles when I am still.

Like in rooms of strangers.

Ruptured scars of
mud sunken hills,
black water

runs like a death plague
through houses.

And soil washes
into cracks and thickens.

Hell's cavities splitting.

Aftershocks,
subtle dreaming,
passing in my sleep.

you are my failings
antiquated

fields of green

salvation

is it not invisible

sensation

and i'm left alone
evacuating


all around light

and dark

you know me

i have nothing in souls


nothing in history


except when emergence


awakening to birds

where are they located
these memories disappearing like vapor

i know too many people


(reason has no prefix)



(oh to be immortal)


and Michelangelo

God reaches, full of brain



blinking


jigsaws out of place


and there are too many words

like fingertips


i hold my hand on the fireplace

to glimpse at burning

Dark Matter

White Matter

the untamed fire eating at the vacuum

and i'm waving at you through glass windows

being checked for explosives.

Mother and Father

you split when I was two

am i what you left and what you were, what you are?

does the corpus collosum

contain the answer to your waving?

left to right

the linear motion of your hand

wraps around into a circle,

blends into unfamiliaritiy

like a simple word you look at for too long

and i am unsure whether to wave back

or to stand infinitely

Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -

this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.

Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.

when time is cerebral,
marginalized

bats squabbling, dropping
fruit, swooping
low overhead
as the humid air saps
the sunlight dry.
the stones that enclose
the roots of the palm trees
slowly morphing
to an electric auburn.
the atmosphere filled
with that rust coloured dust
that you kick up when
you walk.

and kids with fishing rods
running to the wharf.

The garden dwellers are in revolt.


there, a chrysalis on a twig shoot  
and a lorry train of ants dragging that dead body of a beetle
but it is not the body that is dead, it is only a skeleton, a hollow casing
pulled along the highway lines of the octagonal pavement
to the nest that stands like the Dahshur pyramid.
The Queen is carried on the backs of slaves.

Is it dangerous to walk there, down that thorny avenue of roses?


reminiscing over the regret of a lust for death
what is it, absent, another layer of displacement
as you dig beneath,
this garden, this prickly avenue
the soil is drenched with autumn leaves and deepens,
it is dangerous, I am buried in it.

Do you know The Wikipedia Game?
The one where you find a page
from another page. Let’s say
The Beatles from The USA.

This would be tricky,
you’d have to cross the Atlantic.
But they did, so it would
be written. There, you’ve found
it, somewhere hidden. The past,
replayed
in games, virtual roleplays.

Hyperlinks to hypertexts,
DDOS on the hyper hearts.

Do you know The Synonym Game?
I have played for years and it’s always the same.

A news story draped in glitter;
glitter from the mouths that speak
from thousands of glittered boxes.
From the mouths that take time
from the crowds to tell of
the days in an hour.
And to end with the weather.

My parents eating dinner, drinking wine.
Trying to find that time that’s agreeable.
Between the coffee and the calendar lines
crossed out above the fruit bowl.

I shut my eyes at night in ritual
to vacate. Dawn is wise to imposters,
I should sleep for eternity. After all,

the forests are mostly forgiving;
when you’re lost they lead to openings,
subtle, saturated hues.

Openings in the canopies
that camouflage the light with dust.
There is no finer fear than fear of absence;
a life amid explosions, frequent with mistrust.

down by the sand dunes of St Clair
the streetlights are phantasms, diffracted
in the squinting vision of night. Lightning fractured
across the sky cracked, cathartic. Imagine, to steer
into the sea as the evening stretches, take it
to other coasts, live a life less haptic;
resurrection by the unbound, and disappear.
but most days as the wind curls the sand around my toes, this beach to wash up the same bones
the same trunks of broken trees,
what was it I was meant to be
like a limp, whale on the beach stones
eyes to the sea she dreams
  the empty ownerless sea.

e 2.0

p drops

H2Go

V

“whatcha doin’ with no silver
get outta here go”

gotta go on the taxis

1610

that AI hyper-highway
stretched across New Tokyo

gotta go on the taxis
gotta get on that public heat

1612, 1601 and on

hustle me some
ink and paper
to write, I know
the price ( I_know)

“R27901!”

the forgone leaders,
false prophets of popularity
take station, talk about odds,
imagine situations.

You; stuck here,
watching sitcoms on screens
in taxis.

Shania ngarra Nelvin
he said in an SMS
she showed me,
grinning.

Smoke lingering in the kitchen,
a bucket catching drips of liquid
filling the silence with a comforting
consistency. A figure in the corner
with a cigarette in a chair

“we really get the snakes through here.

You know those lines carved in the desert by rainbow serpents brought me.
And the trains used to come by here, it was the train station.
On the grass I would make baskets and talk to the boys with my artwork.
cute ones, ones with diamonds to spare”

Outside; two lapwings, guarding
their nest in military formation.
On the roads, armored vehicles with armored people.
Police checking the parks for alcohol.

The palms wilting down, dead
brown, tangling the canopy
light in sporadic glimpses
on the concrete walls.

Distance, prince of deception
and fictions. Taunting the
lonely mind with
infractions, -

to swim in the depths of fascination.
There’s only faint phantoms awake as you wait.
It’s only the restless thoughts that are slated.
To think about those other places where
you could reach out your hand and relocate.

At the table of frantic feasts, your fate
decided between the savagery of plates
where you’d swallow your anxiety and eat.
This good treat tastes like apple syrup sauce.
Who’d pretend to be dying? No wonder
you’d spend hours researching conspiracies.

“I’ve contracted some kind of disease, I’m
telling you this is like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and I am Ken Kesey”

To run into a stranger
in this faultless neighborhood;
cloaked invisible floating
like an apparition.
I hear the heavy purr
of a cat in the hedges
as he passes, masked
making gestures.

This twilight, as wood fires
where the dogs lie fixated
and the flames fight
amongst the empty spaces.

The same streets we walk each day
are resistant, distant
like an old wearisome lover.
He lifts his arms outstretched
and walks into the darkness.

Zephyrs through the unseen aisles.
Zephyrs through the thoughts of me.

In the morning, the calls of bell birds;
to awaken and
the night is trivial.

I’ve always found cliché
to be the least cliché.

When the quiet girl is interrupted
and played like a character
on a stage. It’s a strange
fruit harvest each season;
different strains, different
chemical plagues. Because
she is too aware of you,
her. To be brought to
the place you already were.

A charlatan of the shipwrecked.
Do we bore ourselves
because we are empty? To laugh
at the reflections.
You could say so much without speaking.
Bear witness to insanity.

There is a lizard
that sits closer to our door
each day. But still runs
if we're to move in anyway.

To split science
by careful measurement.
To create a subject;
abstract, computational.

I am persuaded to forget
that which while present
is dissipating,
because I am not here,
but tangential.

I am governed by the laws of particle physics,
standing motionless as eyes watch me
give a speech on the power of language.

For when you get close,
where objects touch another
in the same way you and I
touch. Cotton curling
away from fire. Oil
on water. It is identical.
Irises returning
into their dark interiors.
Intact, incessant affirmation;
properties
that intersect and
soften, striking that
which while coaxing,
eludes us.

I am a stranger to myself,
entangled.

Through the tunnel
where safety lights diffract
and our cigarettes filter the exhaust fumes

where oil forms rainbows on concrete
and lilacs grow through the cracks

these incandescent heartbeats
in passing cars, passing by

and you lightly, like
a dragonfly,
realigning
to catch the light
in your half opened eye.

A seagull on the street, matte white smeared with tar
Iridescent waste piling up carpark corners,
Leaves swirling in empty lots like schools of fish

and I slip away in the currents
lips paralyzed, a gesture mistaken
faces feeling fading,
vacant animation

but you, sacrosanct, with
coloured paint,
suspended
in glass marbles
and on the street,
paint running into gutters,
paint splashed on concrete.

In this sparse web of sophistry,
light is democratic, affirmative.

Another daylight draws across the ocean
A seagull dives head first into the crescents.

street lights, linings,
objects that carry us,

yet we move nowhere
repeating seasons

how have we nothing
but mornings and evenings...

if you walk at night
into a field
thick, overgrown
you would feel it

for too often the sun sets
and the postman misses the sunrise

I fall to pieces
into pieces

in confinement we escape
in appearance we are invisible

i hope to find you someday in the woods\i'll be lost and you'll be wandering

There is something gentle
in the way you move your hands
like waves rolling in on the shore
when you speak
like tides that retreat
currents that turn and meet
and I meet you there
in the waves, in the water

because no wonder we break
on a sunny day
over nothing at all
except small fragments
of worn out places


We watch
white mist climb
over the dunes
along the grass
into front yards
through windows

the thick air, suffocating
even the seagulls

but time is never fast enough
to take us back
or forward

we roll over
and over again
onto shores
washing up bones
and worn out coins




the sky is brighter in the evenings
you tell me

I watch as a ship leaves the harbour

I feel sorry for everybody
- You feel a tingling climbing up your neck-
as they walk with veils through
fences laced with fires and faces
lining fields spreading into wide green fields
of nothing. Except wind
and grass and
light.

We are, after all
blades of light.
-You think you've thought of something. -
At night, running towards mirrors and portals,
turning together in the cycles of heroic mortals,
stars, suns, static so bright
this is the educated land.
This is the desert.
We have lost all our water.
The only shade is cacti.

You see you can't look around the corner.
Everywhere you go there are bullets that twist and turn.
Bullets that fill the houses of parliament.
I run and get shot.

morning light breaks
a city wakes
chimney smoke subdues
streetlights turn in
to lights through kitchen windows
front doors that open
car engines ignite
I fall asleep

never thought I could feel like this
never thought I would walk before deserts of sunlight
and feel nothing but cold wind, my heart as ice

never thought it was possible
to break while being put together
to forget while remembering
to be inside my body and outside it
to be alive but not living

a sparrow sits on the gutter
a boy walks into the forest
a ship sits anchored in the harbour

sometimes
it's all too much
most times
it's not enough

some days;
see you later

most days;
goodbye

blue, grey,
black air.

a sparrow
flutters over stairs.

a red rug of
chinese cotton.

darkening,
days of depletion
these details of perfection,

a key.
/

white air.

a seagull perched
on the gutter.

trucks slowly
uphills.

people
in houses
lighting fires.

radio static.

lightning. like ego's.
your smoke curling around flashes.
in the night time, the storm drains
overflowing, settling,
piano, pensive, playing
me before beautiful eyes unfolding
then thunder. closing.
i've dreamt for too long
that there was a life
after waking, that
in the water when
we played, the waves
would carry us, swirling,
see we knew the shore,
the sand, soft rocks turning
but not the seasons,
tumbling, if only underwater
when you are weightless,
when you are invisible
forces, surrounded
if only, but
lighting, flashes
rips, ripples
sadness

on
the cusp of concussion,              

                                          clarity


though
already
we are

into deep








dark
infantile
deep

infinitesimal
differential
deep­

rapids running into rivers into rivers into rivers

it comes on slowly
a curtain being pulled open at a theatre
the lights dim
a murmur in the aisles

slowly you feel a fading

then a small, quick intake of break



your love opens
in front of me
all around me
everywhere

I've found a way out

imagine walking
through a rain forest
with eyes closed
in a thunderstorm

there is something you should do,
if you could
remember, but

history is bipolar,
each moment splits in two

rifts, opening
skylights in hallways

days go into days, go
into years
and still nothing.
Nothing in the daisy fields,
nothing in the fields,


white hills vanishing
behind clouds

us, here
on the side of the road

and the wind whines
through the tussock grass

and cars drive past,
bright lights speeding through darkness

where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin

can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,

what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****

it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -

such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****,
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity

There are too many things to unsee in this city,
the night street holds dark memories;
traffic jams, phones blaring
the static complacency of the bourgeoisie,
faint screeches of beat up vans
and tire explosions, schizophrenic
sloth of industrial machinery
drilling roads, houses, three metres apart;
the fragmentation of the nuclear family -

if only life were a gothic fable;
we would all be mythical
deities to the dark regions of earth -

for the night is oceanic,
Atlantic, revolution
turns upon a fixed axis;
tonight’s ocean
opening, first ionization,
breath as oxidation -

the middle
the midnight

in the air where the air is alight
and the light contains substance,
the fine saturation of salience,
lust for dopamine, we light

the silk in the fire, remember the earth
spirals around a sailing sun
like a strand of DNA,
everything circumferencing
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon,
and we are space dancers,
free in the infinite,
the embroidery of all edges,
small, but
insoluble
and dissolving.

the softness of voice is atomic
spoken, static,
lossless

speak to me, and I could not trace you,

follow me into
transience,
dissolution