Forensics

Toronto, Canada

It’s like coming back to a murder

the scene all taped off – the

illusion given that nothing’s altered

the familiar chill, the light, the

noise of night – a specific symphony

but it’s the little things – a

chalk-outline here, the shots

all numbered with neat yellow tags -

each totem sets off rapid-fire

associations to nights and homes

and accents, trigger hits of

eyes and smoke and bodies.

I can’t tell what’s new and old,

the sliver whisp of ‘now’ a greasy

film over played-out vision.

It’s a sepia I could do without

now – too far in – I can’t return

the re-runs and the bleed of new

colours old brass railings

with a patina deep and cold.

I’m unsure then what these fresh

hauntings have accomplished,

whether it’s served only to fuel

a rampant nostalgia or this

strange overlay, an adaptation

of a part life, has blunted the

drive to re-live past lives

and make new indentations in the snow

fiction

Melbourne

love is the best sensation I remember

lying for

those eaten-up degrees

each bruise a bite too far

scented oils say the water’s

there to hurt you – love is

a dream you render when you

best remember lying

Mumma

Melbourne

mumma don’t worry I’ve got some

dreams I caught in my sleep.

mumma remember it’s only

the son bringing hope to the forgotten.

mumma don’t worry they’re birds

I’ve taken broken up to the mountain.

mumma I’m sorry there’s hail

here and I’m not all covered.

mother don’t worry I’ve got a

dial tone and some cash in my pocket.

mother remember the night you

cried all blood till the morning.

mother, son’s are like birds

flying over the mountain

don’t worry to remember

tell me

Melbourne, Australia

tell me baby did you fall into step

when the windows closed?

on a street, on a beach

to the places we used to go.

did you keep up with light

on a rainy day?

to meet and know

now I see love’s no date

there on the side of my

empty neck, there’s

a place you pinched me

and I took followers to

bathe and they called my

name in the river’s crisp

current -

did you see me then,

all hair-shirt and pious

depths? maybe lift

your head cause you can’t sleep,

deep down the devil’s rain

knows better than to trust

fate to love and an

altruist’s heart can turn ink

black in the sun these days -

did you see my love, that

windy dawn – I stole your

song to end up here

and that’s okay for now,

I’ll play you back a copy

like it might work again.

Oxbows

Sydney to Melbourne





At night I see oxbows,

water drops whipping their way
back & forth along
land shorn of trees
in neat edged farms
and rural salt-etched
dreams -
mine is not this place,
wrapped in dusty promises
they’re strips
of puzzle pieces, brown
amongst hazy green,
pock-marked by failed
subsidies and fire-trails
that lead nowhere.
dotted with clouds and
mercury dams, the
parched land flies by
under steel and
a sliding aquamarine
but I can still see
houses on the
table-cloth below

and I’ll still dream
of dust-bowls,
clouds like ak-ak
bursts as far as
the eye can’t see,
where virgin trees dot
a jig-saw land