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.

the softness of voice is atomic
spoken, static,
lossless

speak to me, and I could not trace you,

follow me into
transience,
dissolution

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.

Once I was sitting
in a lecture            on the philosophy of art
and a    student       asked    
  why the whiteboard wasn’t
being used.
The lecturer    
  responded           “I don’t have any
    pens”
  And the student  asked
“why
not?”

I don’t think
I was sitting under the same light as the student.
I could see the white board just fine.

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.

my loose leaf like sway
situates in light, right in
wind, life

leaves me loose
along the precipice of this
coagulated noose

oh hoots and *****!
my boots cannot take me anywhere
today, they
lack distance to stretch

as string stretches all along
our stratified souls
they say, oh
give me a rest

so,
      death;
must you
                  be such an ending
to this terrible mess?
I guess not, i guess
it is not the correct thing to discuss

Let's discuss the
superfluous stuff,
the dramatic tease of interest,
the emaciated conversations of puff,
please, please, situation
and
     nothing
               else, nothing
will tough the brave disguise
of this stuff

the life of this everything stuff

The train stops at 8:55am in the morning
broken down on the tracks without warning,
I sink into my seat, half asleep,
of course wishing this would keep
the car wheels from turning.

But we’re already in too deep
in the wires, underground piping
woven through the streets,
now resigned to merely typing
for the bureaucratic creeps.

If I could stop
too, fast forward to the evening
light
the fire, close the curtains,
this time I might,
though I’m not quite certain.

I have no more to give, no more to keep
the ***** is dry, the kids asleep.

The train stops
at 8:55am in the morning.

Our blood pumps
at an irregular rhythm ;
but still,
I am inviting you
to entrance me,
envelop me,
listen as I saturate you
in melody.


Pull your ears into
your heart,
delicate dancers,
wizards of words,
our rapture rises in the night,
separates the earth from the sky,
pulls together
this, our fortress of fascination …


everything is enticing,
elastic, multi-dimensional.

I am inundated with irony,
stuck in the spell of satire,
my eyes can’t see cars
free from the metaphors of stars,
but this evening
me and you

(we’re speeding compartments of light)


and eyes





you see,
you are my subtle hue
you are the coloured iris that enfolds my hollow pupil,
opening and closing in front of me like
hands catching sand in the sun by the ocean.

Enunciate your words
We cannot hear your muttering
What was that? There
There seems to be something wrong with my mouth
What was that? There
Seems to be something astray

I think it was a cat.
A frigid black cat.
I think it was a cat
there.

These shadows shade
the temporal rifts
of mind
these temperamental taps
of mine

D-d-d-do y-y-y-ou want to adopt a kitten?
D-d-d-do you want my kitten?
I have a litter

Spew the garbage from the pipes
scrub the grime off the machinery
unclog the arteries

keep it pumping
keep it pumping
everyone loves a good ****

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.

white air.

a seagull perched
on the gutter.

trucks slowly
uphills.

people
in houses
lighting fires.

radio static.

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.

on
the cusp of concussion,              

                                          clarity


though
already
we are

into deep








dark
infantile
deep

infinitesimal
differential
deep­

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.
/

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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”

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.

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

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

I've found a way out

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

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

"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. "

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

rapids running into rivers into rivers into rivers

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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