Poems
Fall-out
I am beside you
while bodies
continue to
fall from an overpopulated sky
constantly
at war.
We don' t want the
advanced technological
stuff
chucked into space,
which gravity only
dumps back on our paddocks
for cows to
mush into green gum. I'm here
beside you
because we don' t need to be
burnt alive
by the sun' s dropped torches, or
disconnected by the
hump of a land mine.
Far better for us to
try your homemade scones, or
learn to plaster butter
on homemade bread while it' s hot.
We stand,
alert to
the strangers in us. The
rose you give me
unzips many colours
and softens our path.
The kiss I plant in the
undergrowth of your
flesh
seeds profusely when no one
is looking
when the night's at it's darkest.
Intrusively we keep
occupying
spaces we say
are ours - Do Not Enter -
Forbidden - Keep Out - Beware of
the Man in Dog's Fur. Beware of
me
beside you. I' ve my own
intentions, my
sinister sleepers. Cold
but stirring. Curled up
but hungry.
You walk through me
as if I were a
pocket of
clear air, you
don' t care. You
believe we live off each other.
We sidestep continually
the moulted skins of
humans, the
fall-out of too many people
living in one spot,
dismembering.
We gather skulls of families for
showing off, for celebrating
and remembering. We
place them on cabinets, on mantelpieces, or
window sills. We
put them together
because
we don' t want to be
burnt alive
just because people like to
worship crosses, statues
and blackened saints. You' re
convinced
our path is too soft to walk on,
too many crushed flowers,
too much junk
has fallen, the potholes
are full of mud and water and
reflections of people
looking at themselves. We
keep together,
feeling particles of us
already separating off
living for tomorrow.
Fish
is all gut (sequin-red),
is the sole inhabitant of this world of glass. I
see him for what he is
something to wrap in a sandwich.
Fish
swims in circles, his gut
working all the time. He lives in the food he eats, he
slides through his body
in a tangle of tubes
is threaded out
the other end - only to
eat of himself. He eats what he' s already
eaten,
his own bait.
Fish
isn' t particular how he
mouths into the grubby side of his life. In this
glassy galaxy he is seen as one in
perpetual motion.
He
has been like this since I squeezed him from
his egg. He' s constantly swimming, a
Neolithic nutrient for me to
savour.
Before
the existence of a drop of water he
existed somewhere amongst a hatchery of stars,
the days being black
being formless, endless.
Fish
knew only me. His shape
resembled my hand. Touching.
Tasting. Pushing as if through landscapes
of mucus,
a transparent antediluvian
like a deep oceanic grubber of
things microscopic. I
squeeze daylight
into him.
Fish
looks grateful. He
fixes a smile. He' s a time-traveller
phenomenon and something to
wrap in a sandwich or
slice onto crackers. He
swims between stars, a soft golden comet
all head and flashy tail. He
drifts in seams of rock
when he feels like it. Eventually,
he' s hooked in by me.
Fish floats under his sheet of glass. He
looks tired, doesn' t flinch. My mouth
opens and closes near him. I blow off his dust,
show his fossilised teeth. I
force-feed
air bubbles through his gills, make them
flap in and out. He stares from
an eye,
stares up
at a person
who is like himself trying to
live out of water, trying to
keep his mouth above water.
Fish
has no advice
for someone who continues to flounder about
above the high-water mark. He
has nothing philosophical to say that
makes me feel better for
crawling onto dry land,
getting up on two feet to
peer over trees. Fish
dominates the sky. Like some tropical fruit, he' s
pickable, edible - he
looks good all squashed
into a crusty pie. I
know when eaten he' s been able to
jump start the near dead, to give them new life. He' s
healed the sick and
poisoned the careless.
Fish
has been known to laugh. For self-
preservation, he lives within himself
exploring
the fleshy infrastructure of his
grumbling insides. He
flashes his fins and rejoins the astral cycle. The
day I popped his egg he quickly
digested all opposition,
including family - he
has to be the one and only,
to be the meat in my sandwich. Fish
flashes his tail and
dives down his gullet
where he safely belongs.
I think
he thinks he' s the centre of the universe and
can do as he pleases. I know for sure he
has an eye
pressed hard up against
one of mine.
Guitar Man
Time was I stood above your last known
musical impression. Your name' s still
visible amongst the weeds which had been
flowering when the gardeners were
better fed and they could afford the fuel to
stay alive to maintain the caretaking roles
they were born to do. I love hamburgers and
this rock singer/poet did too.
Perhaps still does. Who can tell? He sings
to an audience of dandelions and plays a
guitar which isn' t there. His fingers
strum hard, dry leaves
skid on the ground. A solitary
minute of virtuosity
spins along the footpath. Pushed in the dirt
a small plastic windmill
whirrs madly at his feet. I take this toy
as a kind of sign to go with the wind. I
need to supplement my musical intake
with a strange swallowing of sun
and sound. In front of his house
continuously shelled by the weather, I
slip into the footprints of this famous man.
I try to walk as he did, copy his every action,
go through the motions of playing guitar after
guitar. The future is an instrument
which has no shape, no feel. Time was
his performances were for real.