dry-cleaning

one peephole defines

i was the gerrymander 

before you linked antarctica to africa 

with scotch-tape 

and whispered sweet nothings to 

climate change. 

it couldn't hear you: your choice to prowl 

the leaves 

love lorn and deformed

by christian parents

he who has served will be serviced forever

more. 

he whose junk on the verge attracted 

bee columns with fidelity 

an artist incensed 

smoked 

and thoroughly ignored, 

two belles 

loving the hats and the accessories. 

i was in a rush to clear my throat

i said i love you, i said: excuse me, ma'm

there's a fish swimming towards you 

but the air here is warmer than out west. 

i judged tin, 

sleet was on the wind, 

crafty water slid beyond me 

and i was dry humping the dust devils

     ignorant bier 

    a fence 

a fence a fence a fence a fence a fence a fence 

^ see?

i push myself over it to be on the side of words 

which really string 

into fathomless depths 

irony, collusion, twins 

on the side 

of what is right, what is

a four letter words for hope

and you give me love. 

spit on my frown, 

it's not worth dry-cleaning my face anymore.

on the lilac shift by the summer sprawl 

the pine needles are 

and the puppies are 

and the moo's are 

taking themselves to where they go, 

i don't know all this rigamarole 

about mud and lessons, trudging 

into mountainsides to take pictures of 

how damn much it hurts to be a rock

and the oblique parties of smiles i am

not sure how to respect, but i know they are 

oblique by the way i am 

in need of them, 

can't see the difference between reflections 

and reality. 

the more alive

that there can be a "more"?

i am unsure. 

bucking tempests 

i am strictly me, so 

 assume i am beyond the door. 

please don't knock :p

writing this letter (ii)

my throat is the animal
in a soundproof room 

lunching on soft growls, 

quieting my cock down...

eats mostly at me, nips
at the water,

long oars between the place i think we were
  when i can't say
or why,
it's unkind to be unknown
even to myself
yet

 your scars 

cut through and i am left on the shore 

watching sails pink into the horizon.

my words resist me, why would i want to say

'i love you'? when it sits clear in my reflection 

as i catch your eye and hold you to a smile. 

i can't lift your skies above me

chase away the birds that you beg 

to follow you

it's either me or not wanting to, 

they graft the same hurt on 

bleed me, even tailing 

cars the one behind 

wishes blood beyond my carcass, 

one headlight peeking 

over the swish of rain

another pounding into 

shadow. 

it's pain 

on every shoulder, 

not just lumps of hurt 

but buckets

twisting mealworm 

in my gut, 

and i bite every apple 

till i find the one you are 

pipped in.

forever spitting seeds 

maybe you grow, 

maybe acid licks off my teeth 

gums bright noose

you in some deep
cavern.

i have
pictures of you
but my memories
stagger into throat
and you are the drunk
swallow
bash love into my body
till i am bruised,
bashed animal
your cruelty i created
made myself animal
just to justify the way
out of being
this
in love with you.

-
i guess it's osmotic 

one memory here and 

one other 

that guy- with the europe lisp 

of power, he flicked you 

with love and then he jerked 

off till you knew he didn't 

want you in his puddle anymore. 

then another wrong turn, i hear 

he wants you back for more

and three moons later 

you are on the next plane,

criss-crossing 

love me notes between the 

continents. 

fucking might be worth it, 

to dangle pretty 

and let him flute
your cunt with a blow-torch.

maybe you can grow the weather 

from your tears.

i don't want them falling on these 

pages though, 

nothing comes from letters

and i want to be the one to stain you

with my chivalry, or the other thing 

paving over flowers, 

praying gardens stay lush
under winter
through to spring thaw

would race to you
four-legged, frothed,
cock headed,
with ten thousand teeth on
a chain

that i pulled from the mouth of your ex
so you could weld
it to my spine

and hold me as your hurt,
you know,

so it never leaves.  

on the phlegm of my throat wand
the presto
the i don't know
with years of time beneath me caking
to the black shelf of an egg bay
and the rotten stench wafts brightly .

 when keats writes:
"a thing of beauty is a joy for ever"
i am the beekeeper
and over my skin, you: protective leathers
or just beekeeper whatevers...

it's in seeing the honey
makes
me quicken for you.

like: i want you wrapped in the upward stretch
of the jasmines' spine. to nibble on your little
green leaves. breathe your jasmine scent
until i perfume of it.

it's in the stars though
that i am tired and swimming between
the lost space between the north
and the south, the ego
i left with you lies like broken furniture
roadside
the flight

is safe, is perfect, finishes off the broken sentence
where love gets jammed in my throat and
i cough and you blink

maybe i get missed.

no promises.

afternoon comes and the wires cross
the year i flayed
the eye, with
the settled stare

come acred, light on 10 by 10 000
hue of diamonds in vision, point by
point

the through of yellow
to the blackened chill of
seeing little people sleep in
dirt and grow fish from the bones
where they knew the fish grew on.

 have lived a year,
islands like demon
have thrown clots into
vision

of fire, or heavens
cycling

one star till it throws up,
bruises the night,
barnacled on a boat by the chop of the wave
it seldom seems
vague as when the sun
beams

lavender, or embers; light sparks
on
paper urban, angles
slivered inside more shapes

we could not want to see.

you're weird- 

water, 

the same silence cut ribbons 

on the rest, 

  the four men out back, 

  leaning again

  wind like sailing 

  sheafs of paper 

  a delicate sound

  

  run into the spinifex.

one was named Red, worn lime shirt, 

in sandals. a roman clef, pitched italian and 

waving empire 

 to the girl on the bike in the ruffled skirt, 

  with the sirloin lips and egyptian sand

   in her teapot.

ours was the same as that; a vision of ancestry, 

either tongued or not said, cadence of 

oars on water, the same sentence 

as the one i thought i read. 

it pulls us strongly, measured, assuredly 

to where the altar thrums, with charcoal bruising 

the air 

and the kids on the dock with their eyes on the clouds 

sing to their parents old songs wise and well worn now. 

we were the same as those fairy-floss tunes, 

sweet at first but more sticky, more cloying after seconds 

and thirds. 

it is nothing to paint you in beside those men

all i need was a photo and a brush of black sky- 

when the rain heaves itself across the pacific, that 

and a dry page, a 

fist of charcoal seemed to do, i smudged you one step 

behind Red, who had stopped looking sideways noting the 

the girl on the bike with euphemism tailing swift behind her, 

i set you there for him, the same vision calling 

me back to the tree-tops, 

where i could sit pretty, mangled, 

well away from culture, 

carving bark figurines of us

and noosing them with wind 

from up high.