And with shaky legs
virgin arms
and eyesight glued to the sky
friend empties blank pad
heavy pen
and deep as ocean book
into the not so shallow eye of my mind

my arms
not so virgin of now
of anymore
and of odyssey
the place where blank moments
become engulfing year long nightmares
of absence
and suicide
longing and crippling shaking

this warbling room of nervousness
a bay more busy than a mall
we are here

no longer tourists in a diverse atmosphere
trapped in a smoking room
the hook
formed deliriously around your mind’s lyrical mandible


with me now

through a smoke storm
of personal second hand sexual misery
illuminated by my questioning eyes
and it figures
and it figures the figure out

and we are here

and I am impersonal
you are a good poem
a bad person
coming to me in between strange styles
this short
how weak are we
I the person
you the poem
the poet,

Blinking in the stark light of reality
pulsing against the shadow gurgling within morose victim-filled mind sewers
that weakly drain away vigorous thinking
and the deformed dormant difficult dance of impermanent power.

And I know your power
and I know your flavour
sentimental boats in a tiny beach
where people lay around on lit rocks
swimming in perfectly clear water
and people have died here
on this spot
in this place
this textured power
this flavour
like a song you lay there
awaiting the awful poking collapse
of my falling
empty pen
and you turn and watch my flicking
non-sleeping arm
and await the date when you can confirm with me
this disability
of my soul
deep conscience tormented
how could it not be
nightmares fermented in the soulful glimpses of paradox and reality and the coldest soberest mornings still hit like a drug
and twist the brain inside the skull
and roll the eyes and dot the tees
with nosebleeds and cum.

You can look at me like a map
of consuming despair
I am there
and you are here.
And you are He.
And me.
In such a long song,
the biggest ever!
Taller than the tallest drunk!
And he,
on the brink, and he has no answer why,
why is he on the brink,
and he is so tall.

You turn to me,
you are always turning to me,
and you answer,
as if you do not care:

“except for perhaps,
the shaking shins,
quivering knuckles,
and the gyre gut of a thousand unborn miracles,
here I spill it,
drawing us together,
like two puddles coming connected,
colourful, petrol born,
nuances of portayal,
I am drawn,
and you are free,
still so virgin,
you evade me,
and the moments,
how do you dance between the embers,
you are so frozen in my mind each night,
do you consume the fire,
do you delight in the pyre,
do you re-create me when I am done and dusted?
Do you birth me in your bright morning?”

And he fell.

“I do,
I try,
I do in the dark of night,
distinct mother poets embrace him,
falling child,
I do,
twice, and twice more,
and twice more.”

There was a soft splash.

And she turned again and said,
as if she did not care:

do not forget eternity
scrawled with dignity on sin denying streets
of healthy homeless
of cancerous business folk
and within the twang of middle class hero
singing out of tune to the coming night
the tune when so many politicians write wrongly
nullifying the potential to right the wrongs
(look at you, clairvoyant, prophet, critic)
a society lays dormant
door matt
door mat for the ill composed
watch as the friars freak on ghost smoke
laying like seduction on window sills
swollen with dripped ink
from a nervous, shaking pen,
that was meant to be re-writing the walls
and giving birth to new roads
someone’s guilt
fills the ill commissioned cells
and the last one now
throttles the first…
Here I have been quaking
forever to just tell you
I love you
with the selfless jazz heart
of red wine titanic
melting the cold shipwrecks
of yesteryear
re-birthing faded parades
in glorious hues of saturn
galactic sundown
every evening
and chosen to show
the diverse beauty of a single moment
one note
in tune
echoes out over city over memphis
and it is my love for you
over lone-grass evaporation and cloud-building escalation,
and loving the strong sense of purpose,
it is my love for you,
the place of memory and fate
where we remember tomorrow
and our objectives,
conspiracies of love,
the creative moment,
dreams of heaven above,
and here we are at last,
so very potent,
and more than brass,
we human beings,
we lucky few,
settle our limbs,
comfort the weary,
with pens empty of ink,
sing old songs,
sing new songs,

And there we sat
among the many
as the body floated by
and children screamed
but it was impossible to tell
if they were happy
or if they were



Lennox Head, Australia

  • Artist
  • Artwork Comments 4

Artist's Description

I am still around like an Italian circle.

Artwork Comments

  • Abigail F.
  • Arcadia Tempest
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