Paul Douglas Robertson

Perth, Australia

HI EVERYBODY!! / I have been writing my novel, which has turned into a trilogy. It’s is so exciting i made my cat throw up last...

Sarcasm is its own reward

Allusions and illusions
Sarcasm is its own reward.
With a feel for illusions and allusions there’s only one bone picker on the farm.
Give me a chance and I’ll tell you how to lose,
how to become whatever it happens you mostly revile when you’re alone
and trying quietude for an experiment.
Bones on the outside, like insects, sure.
There is no way out of this, this is stuck-dom, stuck-ville,
stuck-o-later time,
for Christ’s sake give me a plate full of ashes
and a smothered wreathe and why don’t you ask me one more time, I’ll find the right way to say it.
Ask me again. I’ll say the same thing in a different way and on the couch this time in the night,
singing softly and whispering into my hair.
I’ll show you my teeth and you can twist hairs on my arm so that you know that I know that you’re there.
Wishing for time to see, lips curled like paper on a fire,
man that’s not the world shaking – that’s just you. I love it when ads for colour fade.
Lifting up in quiet suspension and Christ did you see that guy’s fucking NECK?
Offer me a corner in the parlour with soft wrapping on the outside,
lights and stretched skin, translucent like
grass on a spring afternoon only skin, not grass. Offer me this and a few more and ask me again.
This time I’ll tell you a story with highlights in pink
and we’ll both fall backwards laughing into summer with our arms full of flowers clutched a little too tightly. Soft cheek carved into light smell of cigarettes and warm wine,
- tolerance and conviction clean into pure water, sure, in the morning?
Their love story, it’s famous, a princess at Christmas-time,
iron that’s pitted and scarred and cool and heavy in your hand.
Walking on the beach muttering vigorous, Clothos and Lachesis separated by cloth-backed, dark books.
Trying again and so hard this time laced and buckled and arcane,
accentuated and caressed. Willed into existence with a strangled grasp.
Can’t fake anymore got my vices clamped up inside into bluff and hardness.
Can’t give can’t touch what’s inside me
not with these hands pushing against the sides.
In a grotesquery of pinched bones and drawing
tightness beating against my ribs like I’ve swallowed
a murder of crows an assassin of ravens or a murderer an assassin a juggler.
Ask Me
One More.
These streets that are really just snakes and fires like that are lies.
These worlds that hurt and are pins in flesh, like before.
This compassion. This fever.
This moment and fall. It’s happy only-after, gripped and cramped sucked kissed and choking.
In the moonlight with a pulse and a flower clinging to her skin.
Sleep with me.
Push my head to your chest so I can hear your heart
Cry in your sleep.
Breathe into my open mouth
These are the words that will not make love stay.
Paul Robertson

Journal Comments

  • Kym  Breeze
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