This is not a lovesong

It’s a scribble pad, better than cigarette packs, beer coasters, sticky notes, reciepts and serviettes. It holds no real value at the time of writing.


The sky is dark
The moon hides
And the stars give no warmth
Take me back.

Where the sun always shone
And my fathers hand
Is warm on my shoulder
My mothers smile radiates.

The days shone bright
Tones of Ocher.
Through a haze of time
Take me back.

And I look down the road
The sky is blue
Warm on my back
And you are walking towards me.
______________

lonely is he who knows not himself


write a story called churn you idiot
___________________________________

Pearls from swinging and veering swine
To the beat of a million hearts
Poking through dust to get a look
At the ruts and tangles
A white knuckled grip on a thread of hope
Open your mouth and choke
Out directions
With your eyes are closed.


There’s an image in my head
On repeat.

Showing how it should have gone
How I would have looked
Saying what I should have.

And then you smiled
In the image in my head.

So many possibilities
When a picture paints a story
But what did happen?

I only said five words
There was no smile
And now you’re gone.


I live in a stange land who worship the sky, where a mood is determined by the sun or the rain. Where people close down if its dark or cloudy and heads are tipped to sun or from wind. The clothing of choice is as little as possible as long as the weather means you are seen, and small animals make perfect accessories unless they get wet, and the smell will affect the decour.
I long for a place where the harsh wind blows and there’s dew on the ground at half past four as I trudge up the path in a beanie and scarf to the cabin with glowing window frames. To be forced indoors and live by the fire with her by your side and a dog on the floor.


anonymous letters in the mail why must they leave no trail


a question so tangible that had to be asked, filling her head, begging to be released, to travel the path behind her eyes and pass her ruby red lips


The crack of the gun echoed across the flat open paddocks of greying stems and clodded earth setting flocks of cockatoos to flight from the gum trees sporadic on the boundary line, disturbed from their foraging amongst faded green leaves, continuing past the fences of grey uprights and rusted curling wire, the dusty roads and out over the red dry land.
A crow gave a solitary call to the open afternoon.

The crack of the gun expanded into every corner hardly believably that it came from a pellet the size of a small toe. A miniature big bang that ends rather than starts life and searches for all possible escape routes as it expands in size diminishing in content.
Unfortunately for Pete the escape routes were limited in the rusted neglected shed where he now knelt. Once it had held tools for manipulating the land, the memories of which now hunched in corners cobweb covered and forgotten. A sheet of corrugated iron missing here and gaps of light between the loose pieces that flap on windy nights where Peter and the gun now peered through, the odd hole from rust or missing nails. Mostly there was no escape form here, and the deafening sounds bounced and ricochets off walls before burrowing up his nostrils and into his ears, converging to clang a bell inside his head until the bell sounded long after the crack had gone.

Pete continued to peer through the flap of tin eyes wide and pupils dilated, over the grey grass, the trees and fences and the red dirt that way off touched the sky in a place he had never been, and instead of the silence or odd lonely birdcall the land had a new sound track, a ringing that was everywhere all at once.

It’s up here, and in here he said, pointing to his head then his chest.

You have to do it in your head before you do it. He emphasised head and it by a slight lengthening of the vowels. What will the consequences be if you succeed? The consequences are what you have to live with in here, tapping his chest again.

Pete sort of understood what he meant which seemed to be the way whenever they spoke. Some things made sense, but sometimes he said too much or used too many strange words and all it did was make him dizzy, especially when a small explosion had just occurred right next to his ear. The man sat with his back against a wooden tool box and chewed a piece of straw, like a man Pete remembered from the one and only movie he’d seen. Except that man was black and hiding, getting ready to float down a river on a raft with his friend. This man was white, almost too white. Hi skin looked like paint and the hood of his brow cast no shadow on his eye sockets which made his blue eyes pale.

Did you hit it?

Pete looked out towards the fence pole; the can still sat, unmoved and unphased by whatever possible threat it had recently avoided.

No.


Gradually the land settled back into its place, wide and open, quiet and still, easily absorbing the momentary disruption. The cockatoos returned to their rest with an almost audible sigh.

Pete ‘came back’ as he liked to put it, with a start. Released form the hold of the land to find he was again alone, he must find out the strangers name next time he visits, his most important task for the moment was to return the gun so that pa wouldn’t know, then do his jobs before pa returned from town. He squeezed through the door of the shed, the ground seemed to have grown around the door so it no longer moved. He checked for the old crow, the coast was clear, and galloped into the house.


anyone can create, far better to make up shit


why is the sky blue? cause all day it look sdown at what we are doing to the earth and each other.


progress? just a greater choice of idols to worship

This is not a lovesong

Michael Douglass

Alexandria, Australia

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