poems for girls always end...

you here with me
the sky’s tendency to open up
at vacuum inopportunities
growl past glaring tired reflections,
streams on bitumen
eyes off glass
today’s indiscretion oft repeated
in some esoteric penumbra
too ready to move our
servitude to eloquence
than rather sense the completeness
of Foucault in the morning,
Bathes over coffee and the
entire Fallacy drifting along the
Coogee piercing salt-bath
like our spatterings were made
share themselves with others
green goes red once more and
we seek solace in a day we call
yesterday, tomorrow’s horizon too
tumultuous to explain as we
need protections from all your armours
in that dark suit of gold you
dazzled me with once.
I want to echo round your
halls like the thoughts we sent
groggy into the hazy
morning’s stars so we can sleep
a little longer than needed to
truly start the day without
one last consumption –
scared to believe, scared to need
the last spanner’s twist to finally
breathe that last machine into me,
clockwork absolutions and simulated
cries retch out
stay you
neat horizons arch through
city sights to picture-mark those
post-card moments until you need not
apply your vaunted beyond compliance
to this depth and perspiration.
Equivocate to knocking on the southern
door to drab dreaming servitude.
tickle all the dark places
need another night
twist out somnambulance’s distance
ambling coverage
beauty in simplicity
your big brown eyes
turn greener as I slide

inwards, fractured patterns
your look
my gaze
our luck

Elegy 1

Elegia Prima, Anno Aetatis 21

dusty

A poetic sense of memory
just as if you’d be
lighter and less factual if
tonight you lay with me

A dusty nowhere highway
and a running little girl
who peers into the headlights
through a single hanging curl

sparkles

sparkles...
11:46 p.m. :: 2003-10-07

My best friend Kat died on Saturday night. For those of you who didn't know, now you do. For those of you who didn't know her - you missed out. You would've one day heard of her, about her or met her somewhere in the world. Because she sparkled so. Because everywhere she went she carried with her a warmth and a fire that burned so brightly if so desperately short. She will never come back to us, because she has not left. She lives and burns in each of us here today and the thousand people who wondered 'Who was that girl in red?' Whether it was in a tutorial, a performance, a speech, a party, a shoe shop or a quiet cafe made louder by her presence - you felt her everywhere she was. Everywhere she had been. She was our Kat. A thousand tiny facets kept her shimmering everyway you looked at her - like one of her oh so precious diamonte's. And sometimes though we feel like wailing, though there are questions that will never be answered, we know that she's the best dressed angel there is, with pink feather wings and a trail of glitter just her own. We will miss you honey, we will keep going for you, for each other. Because it's what you would want and it's what we will do - she's ours now, to carry round, to fall back on, to laugh with, to cry with. She was our Kat and she sparkled so.

LaScala

Venice

Naked. Bread and wine laid out.

olden-time coin stacked neatly

in a struggling pile.

The fan’s pulsing shadows keep

bow-string time as lower chords

sow the whole divine plan together -

out the window, down the long

Via Garibaldi, plunge through streets,

twisted markets, stunted lanes and

nameless bridges - urgent seeking

thrusting

some repose

the fan brings you back, striking

at first in its fits and inducing

haze (like something in your eyes

is broke)

incapacitated, solid, melted chords

drip off the speakers, seep into your

ears

Help him, he must hurt so

How does he transcribe it all –

ah that chord

such agony

such pain

layers build chasm

mine

tears

the soft hum of the fan as

the end slides near, why

where, crucified

as, father.