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flaming hearts buy death in june

Posted to Poetry


The bird danced across the branch
bobbing its dramatic head
& down
whistling insanely, displaying
its impeccable wit; man laid down
in the green green grass
watched intently
unaware of the cold damp earth
beginning to thaw — O, for a camera
such an absurdly American display
of beauty


I’m waiting
the night is down
the sweet smell completes
my solitaire sonata

through barking streets
your whisper bleeds
calling, calling me

I wait for the sound to die away
as it does, too quickly
lost again in the divided mind
between there & here

I call your name
in attempted harmony
as if this would make you hear me
any clearer

anything at all
to entice you from the black ether
from the other side of night

The Night is a Woman

The night was brunette
full blown — beautiful
& warm so warm
& tender like the inside thigh
of a goddess
eyes dancing with neon
sequinned contours
undulating in the dusk
her hazy musk burning
her moans so softly
whispered in my ear . . .

Felix Culpa

As I look into the self I see nothing but felix culpa — for as my eyes roll across the blank canvas of the mind, words appear where there were none.

There are two states of existence: thought & action — before I draw I must think I will; I must create an approach to my task — the least roads travelled to the nearest point.

& slowly words create an image, or a justification of an image & then correspond that concept to my memory & morale; integrating the textual into a visual realization of that expression.

My mind wills my body to act; the interior architect dispenses the plan to the artisan — theory always precedes practice.

Even base bodily functions require thought in order to be executed efficiently, effectively, & in the right place; otherwise, such action is mere function without purpose or performance.

One Minute of Freedom

a never—ending vision
the horizon
perpetually receding
a being, spinning
quite alone
eyelids dissolved

that second of freedom

when the heart
skips a beat

I can make the sky cry
the clouds fume & rage
worlds shrink
level hills/mountains
smash cities
hold the sun burning in my hand
then swallow it
I am alien
& everyone
& no—one
a giant killer
& a giant
I am dead & alive

where is the ritual
that means more than this?
where has it all gone
if it ever existed at all?

a naked woman
straddles the white steel flagpole
gazing hungrily at the twisting flag
flapping lazily
in the warm breeze
sweat glistening on her swinging breasts
she squats
tilts her head back
grasping the pole
sliding up its length
her legs elongating
kissing its shiny skin
with pink pursed lips
her body stretches
transformation of national pride
into tumultuous serpent

meaning — in pain
or in fantasy . . .
what follows us
will be our shadow
our blood
not hot & boiling
with hate
wanting nothing better
than to kill
our rotting memory . . .

to the insights
of the poetic vision
the truth dictates ignorance
to replace purpose

god cannot undo what has been done
she cries after she hits me
this hurts me
more than it hurts you
& she is right
my pain only occurs in flesh
my conscienceless heart
hung like a stone in cement
youthful arrogant sadism
wielded like a fist in her face
her daughter runs sobbing from the kitchen-knife
held playfully at her throat
now back in the drawer
hidden from view — coveted
she rids the house of all its weapons
to cut meat is father’s privilege
I make the most of my own collection
carving apples with a stolen cutlass
like ‘Jim Hawkins,’ considering
the spot between the captain’s shoulder-blades . . .
nothing is as plain as it seems
when you put words to it
when you apply words to the world
hopping like a sandfly
ducking diving dodging hiding
behind between on-top- of
wind-blown dunes
alive with writhing copulation
through the swaying swishing cutting-grass
pink bodies entwined in a sandy furrow

caught between
a gesture & a pose
you contemplate my gaze

in a beautiful moment
your heart flows
out of your face
into my mouth
burrowing deep
in my throbbing heart
like a knife

I am your servant
my dry lips drink
from your river
from your wounded life
yet words don’t quench
my body’s love for you
without you
the thick air I breathe
is poisonous
& empty . . .

it is terrible without you
when you are next to me
I dream we are together
forever in dream
or reality — whatever
I will strive to be with you
to appease this thirst
with your beauty
with your evanescent presence

your form eludes me
your effect
preys witness
to my beating heart

kids leaping clouds
as quick shadows scroll
across the concrete path
passing fast like planes

drawn to a knobbled breast of tree
perched on a reclining withered trunk
whorls of years knotted in grain & bark
an iris of ages — a lichened Aeolian
the wind whistling across its gnarled chest
collapse = expansion due to reversal of time
everything collapses

My god, My god — why have you forsaken me?
Eli Eli lama sabachthani?

Why can’t we see wind?

Early on, I walked the streets & recognised good & evil at play — I first learnt of their essential nature through TV dreams & broken books that wept from septic wounds — so bloody & so beautiful. At home I watched & participated in the tragic farce of human comedy that is performed on every urban stage, set against the fantastic nightmare of domesticity & banal relationships. I painted hills with fire & houses with blood — walked on the clouds throwing handfuls of dung down on skittering pedestrians hiding under clotheslines, old cars, smashed mailboxes, pornographic magazines held above their shaven heads . . . I kept a journal painted with words & crude ink drawings, to record my existence in terms of my surroundings . . .

Death becomes us
More & more
Shifting stark worlds
Impure to pure

A Question of Function

To piss, or not to piss?
that is undoubtedly the question
one in the hand
& two in the bush
each — their weight — a boiled egg
hung by a rubber-band
ribald balls of soft allure
the firmament of spleen
begs release
only to be asked back again
like a sinful thought retrieved

To piss, or not to piss?
it is getting harder
to contain my answer
a backyard bum
grimacing in indecision
grinding in masochistic mastication
fat half moons
of his hairy ham face
grinning in agony . . .

The Road Less Travelled

We travelled to Mapua
through Nelson from the Sounds
in the hot afternoon sun
between colonnades
of scruffy apple tress,
their burden of fruit ready to shed
sparkling balls of blood
dancing in the breeze
& the road rides on
to Mapua’s wharf & over there
is rabbit island, framing
the river mouth with a slab of dark pine
& on the other side
— the motorcamp, nestled between
huge trees, not meant for harvest
just shelter & ‘clothing optional’
the café now spawns delicacies
a small restaurant behind smokes
fish & oysters & makes the best
burgers around, yet here it was
that another world existed
& brave men ferried cargo
across the teeming strait
on timber boats the size of small trucks
— even using sails & oars
& people were withdrawn or deposited
on these planks long-gone replaced,
to make way for the new, repair the past
from Mapua to Nelson . . .
still in the sun
the bay sparkles & a bright sea mist
covers the horizon — the blue sky,
faultless — the fields flicking by
like cubist paint effects in drought
but still lots of green to lead us
into night & the broken white line
of winding black roads
littered with carrion & daylight
memories, meanders us back toward
the Sounds.

A dream dreamed awake

Your hand feels warm
so good with mine
as we step into the twilight
of a new dawn
a new beginning
& sip hope
eternal summer wine

Intoxicated with your presence
enveloped in your arms
saturated with your essence
besotted by your charms

I slip into the sounds sanguine
of words & lovers’
hearts entwined

your eyes bloom dreams
your lips speak love
everything echoed
in my own desires
a fragrance of you
so sweet sublime