Car jar

a blog bog.

UNDER THE BOARDWALK

The board walks through the wetlands,
foot to plank, pacing fast. Dark trousers,
they are pressed. The ties are crisp, only their
eyes have washed off in the sun.

From the swamp the shadows jump bars
across the shrinking sky. The mallet knocks
in support, so those heels can clatter through.
They do their best to neglect the stench.
The director trims a nail, the carpenter
holds a breath. Each step is made at once.
As soon as there is timber track.

One body loses ground on sudden rotten
wood. He splashes through the pier and
stumbles into mud. He’s lost his favourite
pencil in the thickets and the fog. Then
the rest continue; they’re in a bloody hurry.
They chatter in the distance
and they march on.

Wait? A mouth slips, faintly.

A: OPPRESSION

The puppy tucks her legs beneath herself. Its eyes flicker about, sheepish. Tethered to a post. He’s busy shopping.

The rope is tied to a stake in the sand. The fishing boat rocks in the waves, on the rocks. No fish tonight. The bay is rough and cloudy. Pack up your spears, mate. Switch off the torch.

Let’s drive back in the dark – and laugh when the children piss their pants.

A small break between the leaves of
twin gum trees reveals a flow of people
moving deliberately forward at varying
paces. One, a child on a scooter, flies
out of view, kicking earnestly at the ground.
Another, a woman with red
shoes and striped leggings moves more
leisurely. The music swells, a whip of
wave flung effervescent. There’s
that nagging piano decline,
an anxious ebb of confidence like a streak
of warm urine through the Atlantic.
Someone somersaults, handstands on
the sloped grass. He could relate to
all of this. And especially to the line of
cloud moving over the craned city, coming
to rest obdurately before the sun. Blood
rushes to the head. There is a compromise
for the encroaching shade.

The Day Neil Died

I awoke at 7am to
find your face on the welcome mat.
‘Moonwalker a reluctant hero’ it said,
and I believed it.

On the way to Narooma we drove
through the night. I sat between my brother
and
sister. And my parents were ahead.
I leant forward and said that
I wanted to be an astronomer when
I grew up.
Dad said that there was no money in the stars.

I don’t sweat. It doesn’t get to me like that. I’m not
sad that you’ve left us.

I’ll breathe on and probably forget about
you in a couple of days. On one of them
someone will think to make
a movie about you.
Chiefly glorious, chiefly understated.
Mr Aldrin will spend most of his screen-time drunk,

and probably win an oscar.

I can’t
remember now what I’ve done
with that newspaper.
It doesn’t matter so much.

I’ll come across it
tomorrow
or the next day
and remark on
what a perfectly
ordinary face
you had and
that will move
me to tears.

Longbow

Sleeve

By Degrees and Branches

‘In decision thus,

The drawing bridge will close to half.

For pulley there, and guarding shark

in fear of terrorising heart

have frightened them with mercy

(while collecting humble art)

until in kindness,

they depart.’

I cannot in kindness keep my fortress shut, for it is steep, and long before you grew up, we were getting down. Welcome, kin. Come in, come in! Why the sticky hesitance? Glue me to the residence and rest your itchy paws. Today was just a puddle in the swelling belly of a python; sure to shrink again, but one which always knows of those to come. We wait the line for varicose in three dimensi-ons at most, and reach for spoons along the road. To lead my ample friend to narrow ending wells, I balance eggs up on my nose. Horns and bells could ask a single cause, but seem to yell a few instead: “Take off your head! Did you hear what I just said?”. Thus corner-ed, the rook itself would repose in dust along the shelf, hung weary by the wealth in books of whom the mushroom chats about with freshly catalogu-ed glaze, at least for three banana days – bats and wild – but not to split the cage. Not much room to turn a key in locks the size of walnut trees set in silhouette before the rising breeze and howling sun.

But, dear children, why the frown? I am hardly barely nude. A bottle cap sits on my crown. Actually, I lost my gown. I am but flesh from dimples down. Of other matters, how have you been? So icy and forlorn? Well then, let me get you warm; I recollect a time like this; a reflection if you wish.

I met Glenn or God that day, which one I don’t recall, but he relayed us all in spells and muttered halls to laugh away, or ask again. I began with ‘When?’ He mocking answered ‘Then’. He wore a velvet whistle. She whispered ‘What is that?’, fidgeting with fuzz; a twisted knot. She who walked on silver string and searching for a key to ring, stood beneath her fickle hair. I would have asked her name but didn’t really care. Honestly, she was black and I saw her white underwear. Get this, she receives my stare – delighting rich – cracking kitchen pot to can, she checks the door. We bend our knees and boogie on the floor. Glenn the meanwhile eating shit, or most of it, bears a dizzy tunnel down the rubber floor. ‘Copy not,’ repeated he, his way faring to shreds, his cripple feet struck cold and red, ‘but emulate’. Despite the clear conceit in this I held a final pause in chambers of the winking jungle. I never doubt he saw in me the same deceit and further held his place. I left the grains behind. Ripple, jumble, did we then, for Glenn or God had by the hem glean-ed of seeds I had lain in double virgin olive trails, forcing fans to shield their palms of one, rising cake. Solid as a lake. Impatience bakes the best of us, but Glenn had given trust, and for that I now would share the rest.

Image  Image

He is in twelfth and seventh time, or else she who passeth wine to screen this mind now withdraws a lucky score of time. Previous to this recline, dotted down with dumpling jugs and sacks of hugs, there was a skinny waisted fussy legged spindle braided ashy fingered thing, a creature who could sing, but chose instead to endow my pregnant self respect with all else but a hell’s neglect; he introduced the ropes of trees (their bubble peeved by manners of the loving levered) and only just to please. Mingling in guessing game and dressing less, from the brick reserve he did caress the ceaseless and invisible. ‘Skip,’ he called himself who brought his own ‘supplies of fantasy’, (for we else three who had the rolls of tape and taped the rolls of spinning corn had none else then to look upon, or none at least to see with scorn) brings to me that Glenn, who gave conspiracy to men and spins his thread deep down to them who sleep in trains and truly give the whollest praise.

And though they had all dignity, none but one returned to vote; the fledgling coalition coat fluttered coyly from the cast; unhooked then from tortures past and filibustering to last no longer than a molten river cruise across the oriental plain, so that the diligent might best remain to shimmy in the tally. I thought it queer to commandeer the arms of anger most, especially when Glenn and Skip did repudiate the current host. Perhaps it was a simple toast, and not a boring game of hearts, no played out place to start, but only what they wanted most. Greener than my growing hair and sandy growls the tiger there who perceiv-ed them so wrong. But she will learn to get along, and ojalá will hear this song.

θ θ θ θ θ θ θ

burp jamz 4

burp jamz 4

This album changed me

Life is endless…

Life is endless night,
a cold wind changing lanes
in the deep grass of nowhere.

Beneath powerlines
A game of cricket is played. Each
dull knock of ball on bat falling flat
across the grass.

There are muddy knees in the endless night.
Grass stains skid across the stars, the
batter’s head raised.

In the morning the dew rests
delicately on the grass. With a rattle the gate
opens and
out he comes, puffing. Followed
by her, thinking. How nice it is to be
up at this time of morning when the birds
are reaching for toothbrushes.

He came to show…

He came to show off his suit. Knocked at the door, ‘yes!’.

‘Well tonight I’m going to a charity launch, this one I’ve been helping out with at the legal centre’. ‘You look appropriately spiff’.

‘Thanks, you don’t think I should go black tie?’. ‘No that’s fine’.

‘I get to meet all these high-powered judges, I’m nervous!’. He titillates,

then leaves, closing the door.

I turn back to my book, reconstructing his anxiety.