ajax

this can't continue now, can it?

Go die, Come (let me) love you

Knah mernir, yegoor sirem

I feel you survived Տէր Զօր (Der Zor) somehow

Bayts, Mayreeg jan, seeroom em iren

Inch bes garelyeh Seerelis sirel?

Oh, Asdvajz im (my God), okneer injz (help me).

Mayreeg jan, nereer injz (forgive me), forgive me.

Of course you haven’t failed me.

(patience)… to be alive is to be patient. This land has given me new hope, a new
beginning. Today, park asdvajz (God be thanked)

bari luis Seerelis (goodnight)

and so why is that not enough?

yes (I) am







* after and inspired by torange-yeghiazarian

οι καυμενοι *

there's a passage to the back - if you wedge through the dead mice faded slats - where you can see the gully and if you're quick, can slip-slide down the embankment and onto to fern floor. When you penetrate there's a hush, nothing but old puffs of green moss, the odd rock, a bird making an almost word noise, like a lost call to Mecca. It's the gloom at first, but I can see in the dark, push past the big dead Black-boy (though we can't call them that anymore) and if you squint into the rock face to your left there it is - a passage, a gap - a slit almost hidden in the rock. It's a Nargun-place, I swear it moves each time a little, then deeper in you'll find her. A Mister-minute hat, with a little zip down the side for a key I suppose, sits on her skull with a little of what may have been tawny hair, but in a bob, not the fashion anymore. I call her Kate - that's all there is really. In the cave, we have tea-parties, seances, ballroom dances and grand parades. She's faded now, but I like her sparkling wit, her careful grace. I brush sand from the entrance, trying to keep the gully at bay, the ferns out there but I know in the end I won't be able to save her from the mud and the rock-wall increments. So I'll crawl out, past the ferns, past the Kingswood shell, last night's bogan fires and back to the picket line, bleached board house, the cool coast air and you...




* after Patrick White...that bastard...

vigesimal...

I can count
this year's communications
on one hand, I think
the times real was said,
something broached
a subject, a taboo
so you and you and
you and me
that's enough said cause
what are words?
I'm sick of talking about it.
Yeah? Yeah.
Just last week...
I find that hard to believe.
I'm going.
No, don't - just...this isn't...
I'm so angry at you...
I know

moccasin

what doesn't kill you makes you...
there are plenty of ways to live blind,
enlivened by lust and a deer's white-tail
flight for
green and
green
there's a corollary need, a virgin-cave
present in a moss-topped over night
sense
felt in the brass of a centre-fire cartridge
down the long rifling
through a orthodox graph - an x-and-y
and no beyond
down wind and smeared with pellets
he can see your breath so
there's
hold
and hold
and
not so
so
to fight the pulse-bounce, parralax
distress and calm sweet down onto the -
squeeze not pull
snap
snap
click
snap
like nothing you've ever
slumped, corrosive (you'll be surprised how
quickly the skin comes off - in a one piece, a
flash leotard, a pelt for all seasons)
mine's a doppelganger, some Dorian
reproach, he for I and I still on
through Adirondack slack hilled
weevil trails and the
weird Manhattan spine
glimpsed before a truck-stop plunge on
the grey-green trail