philosofie

In my hand I have a blade Does it seat a dell, or cut? And has the outside passed from life If I keep the doorway shut? I hear your thoughts - I feel you cry - but joyous sun, or bleak despair - If you pressed my eyes to jet, No kiss certains you're truly there. This grass has blade enough to cut and soft and green, the sword I see a jagged arc of lusted smiles reflects a deviant of me

I waved to this supreme inversion Parading upon the curtain Seen as black as black could be The shadow held more life than me I had the name, I had the face yet i was gone without a trace and as the silhuoette took flight I splintered, lost to prismic light

I once knew of a bronzed bell Which fell to moss from walls above A shrine to lore of jewelled times With russet branch a hopeful bed And when in rose the summer bloom'd It pushed to grace the tinted chime Which rang as soft as waterdrops That interlaced and moated by, as If they guarded precious gold - and step by tiptoe, stole it off So roving knells and foaming crest were one and all 'til chalky rocks receded far. A muted sound was all that moved the stilled wide Crystal, lap and cloud were one and yet the bell was solid, sure It slept, instead, on umber now and resonated with the spool 'til hapless soul would rarely fin

You traced the sky out with your finger a skater's eight, circle, perhaps maybe the most divine location on an ethereal map It was, for certain not on earth for all the joy we'd hoped to find we'd searched too long, too hard, too fast, until our youth was left behind You traced the sky out with your finger a stubby stick standing tall my Atlas of this generation stopping an immortal fall of indigo and velvet blue stabbing sparks like dizzy moons staticity in transience rigor mortis of thoughts too soon your hand dropped down, you giggled, lit moved on; how could you not too see? and in a flash slow as your smile in grey; I

Colourblind His past stares at him from downstairs, upon four walls. The front page extra: 'Preston proves perfect protagonist', the Newsletter: 'Champion champions our cause - Greenfield Grammar's very own Gandhi...' he knew he wasn't that good, they just had to make it rhyme, rightly so - but it felt good. The search for justice, the search for truth - the necessity of righteousness. Everything has to be fought for, even the slightest error, the slightest immorality or amorality -  if one lets those go, one is a hypocrite, a felon, a worthless catalyst of exactly everything that needs to be diminished - evil, irrationality, lie, pretence..

Will you count the raindrops with me When you've been here three hours at least You watch the light pin-prick the glass from dusky vehicles travelling east I hear a jar; strings scream in night-time seas Siren of amber coilings in the air But no; this serpent bell's a skid-mark screech banished by your torch - a temporal flare Sienna cracks crumble like dirt Gravel slid reveals reality History cocooned in beaded glass advent of sea-wine wind chains me the hoar-frost drugs me numb like fleece or cloud or cotton wool, in giddiness I quail Yet stream as lava as your touch reflames the boiling ash from scars in his last sail The

Love is lying on the pavement, cheeks pressed, querulous hands finger, against the bumpy tarmac tinged with the orange glow of the first streetlights who carry the late afternoon sun into the night What are you searching for? echoes? fossils? car engine rumbles? Scramble groundwards, see everything backwards up, upside down, The buildings come Crashing down onto the delicate, fleeting sky and its aeolian caryatids. (I can only bow down feet level to the previous pillars of poetry try to catch in amber flecks of gold Something worth the clarity) From the depths of backwards, her hand reaches out I hold it between mine, on my

Lying on the pavement, cheek pressed against it; querulous hands finger bumpy tarmac tinged with the orange glow of the first streetlights who carry the late afternoon sun into the night What are you searching for? Echoes? Fossils? Rumbles of car engines? Scramble groundwards, see everything backwards up, upside down, The buildings come Crashing down onto the delicate, fleeting sky and its aeolian caryatids. From the depths of backwards, her hand reaches out to be held between its doubles, on his chest Like a sculpture on a tomb Recumbent pupil-less effigy cupping a prayer blindly surmounting humanity it is a grey aft

The night envelopes her gaze as it advances through the window-frame. Inside a room cluttered with the wonders man-made, the elements so tranquil and unassuming outside in the night garden rip up a frenzy of streaming ribbon, rustling paper, and tinkling metal, like sound moving from a vacuum to vibrate joyously in the air and its particles, only fluttering. The sizzling heart of the town sprawls across the right of her vision. At this hour it is an expanse of pinprick lights, her orange and, to her constant bemusement and delight, green, empire. Squinting, she decomposes it, watches its embers ooze and bubble tepidly. Then she recomposes it

I sit within the train, my opposite: to the world, it hurls itself heaving across the line of direction with judder and squeal. But within all is hushed to rattle, whoosh. I envy it, as inside me, cacophony agitates, whips up into my throat, to be swallowed back down with morning tea and egg mayo sandwiches. Our exteriors are taut with civility, with reticence. I would prefer the train's manner of deception. The window is opaque with condensation. I slap a hand against it, willing its cold to osmose through skin, blood, inwards even into the abstraction! that is desire. Just like that I have drawn a smiley-face into the wi

I want to hear your dreams Crunch beneath my feet. Celos, cielos, are infinite. I am scared of death. I clutch at thoughts like weeds. Secretly, I enjoy the sun. Streets in San Francisco smell Of earthquakes and piss. Someone sells T-shirts, black-and-white Photos, Jimi Hendrix with a cigarette. This sticks in my mind. A kid in South America Tried to sell me gum at beggar's price. Hands in my pockets, I told him, No. Flat writing tastes of paper. Sand smooth tongue - I chew on it. I saw a meteor shower But remember the street light. Ink-blot clusters of bugs Died warm. When it snows, I can pretend Everything is new. O

Anomie My air comes sharp like pinpricks, lungs plucked tight and thin. Where you smile, you create vacuums of air; no particles, no sunlight. Here, I am inside out and must breathe solid things. With click of stones meeting, our foreheads touch and push lucent skin There. I put my mouth on yours and find that I am breathing again. The quiescent light spoons just around us. Dust motes circle like cicadas and come to rest.

i know you, you still listen to the songs that remind you of the long nights. that pitch that paints a picture of my arms balancing on my head, facing open windowed streets with cigarette smoke wrapping itself around the curtains, forcing itself through the flyscreen; ash descending to meet floorboard. we were all effortless, once. once we drank freely from the deep well of melody, once we crafted every word of our own image. once it never took me more than a mere second to write a poem; then an hour; then a day. once we would smile wryly, stripping silences bare + embalming our own brand of doomed happiness into the sly