March 19th, 2010
making #14: solo
There’s fish in the sea
but not for me.
Teen girls
board the bus
in shoals
shallow and
glistening.
Driver rearview-
mirrors their legs
while stopped
at the red.
Old bloke picks me
to give advice to—
it’ll be cold tomorrow,
he’s lived here since
1946, before
supermarkets,
before they built
the road.
Calls me ‘luv’
as expected
leaning to
my shoulder.
Leaves me hoping
for more
at his age.
making #13: fairy
she melts
through my fingers
porous
transparent
and tacky-sweet.
slick with sugar
she slips
out of her t-shirt
and into
my sheets
to stop the light
shining through.
making #12: brush away dust
I visit
the threshold
of our bedroom
while the boxes are still taped up.
An archaeology of
rough, shifting monuments
nearly recognizable shapes.
You resurrect
civilisation
while my heart
stalks outside
a detained tourist
in this uninscribed
new world.
March 18th, 2010
making #11: prophet
a tiny silver
cup of coffee
crosses my palm
payment for a story
of a more
exciting future.
you’re hissing my fortune
with steam
dark grit
and warm thick lips.
making #10: cosmogeny
I am pliable
as beeswax
rolled in his palm
or dropped mercury
careening across
his body’s flat surface.
Molten
newly rounded
I await
the gift of gravity.
March 17th, 2010
making #9: mention, definition, usage, quotation
yield: to give a return, as for labour expended; to surrender or submit…
[Read the rest…]
making #8: square
Inventory:
the pale sun
that the curtains
can’t quite block
and your neck
your face
pulled under the blanket
like a turtle;
the hospital corners
unkicked at the bottom
that we won’t bother
remaking
tonight
and my hair
curled around
snagged on the bedhead;
your day-old stubble
and my rough path
along your jaw.
Our drugged whispering.
Everything sinking within
this deep square bed
from head to foot.
making #7: drown
Your legs cycling beneath the water,
five days of flood
and the fight that stretches,
from before he left,
through phone calls,
into his return.
Your body running
and no ground to purchase on,
until god divides the oceans
and dries the earth.
March 16th, 2010
making #6: coup d’etat
At low tide
the ocean is beaten back
from the beaches
bruised and motionless.
Sinking behind
the rise of gritty
suburban streets,
cracked mosaic houses
terraced up from the cliffs,
flint-rough roofs
and white walls.
This hot city
gasps moisture
out of the air
and the pavements fill—
beak-torn figs
rolling gumnuts
parched leaves to attract sparks.
Streets shed their skin
while humans hide indoors,
the mountain
greedy
collecting thunder
and clouds as fat as fruit.