a disconnected 3

...as the title says.

 

'dusty shutters'

 

 

revolt
for those
who have fire

and a home away
from endless lights

somewhere in the coromandel
where a lonesome dinghy
provides that perfect shot.

that rickety red car we owned
struggled up those gravel slopes:
wayward grip, loose laughter

at the sixty foot drop
beneath.

i often spread my arms
to call the lighthouse back
into my sternum: cape reinga,
dreaming sands,
feisty currents shaking hands
and rubbing noses.

wish for anywhere
but my room
filled with chocolate fudge
and last night's couscous.

this house is old. my mood
is tropical and skulking amongst the ferns.
the cat next door deserves a spanking
for ripping through our weekly rubbish.

and i
another piece of bric-a-brac
in this shining mix
of migrant
and historic flux,
of phonecalls and forgotten runs,
believing this rain will stop
through huddled books and strangers' smiles,
but it's warmth all the same.

pohutukawa, they'll bloom this christmas, as always.
gashed amongst the rocks, roots of weaving castles
tempting me away from here

from faces which barely say hello. i could walk this street
in my underwear screaming "release me to this wilderness"
and not one would rush to tackle me.

revolt
for those
who care enough
to jot each ocean down,
each waterfall
a silent train
smiling over bridges,
each a sentinel for that divide,
that gap between
each finger
saluting the smoggy sky.

i want fire. i want my skin to feel alive.
i'll wash each vein and dream of flight.

 

 

 

'a night of conflict'

 

and i know that's what i seem to
desire as a pyramid to tutankhamen's
eyes lined with kohl and coal covered
fingers cupping flame to ceiling asking
asking what all those symbols mean
when everything can be taken
out of context and eventualities
which never quite eventuate
how you will it
to be

and i sold my palms
to the closest fortune-teller
willing me empresses and rivers
and rabbit-holes into my wonderland
where conversation is a silent motionless
enterprise of saffron and silk and
rustling curvatures implying
bodies dancing and living and laughing
and searching for the next
little thing

and i on the mezzanine and i
in a hallway circumventing solutions
mapped out by cartesian thinkers
by encyclopaedic memories and notes
and notes and more endless misconceptions
given salt and pepper
to taste

i want all of this to crumble
for hieroglyphics to bathe in
green currents green melodies
in silver solutions
inseeming and insoluble
inscrutable and enchanting
you

 

 

 

'placation is for the weary already'

 

 

you

speak of balms, of roses,
of lady fortuna holding

your cards. you're a
wishful one, flute in hand,

an apple

in the other. i'm not
the anti-christ, however

low i may become. i
shine and grieve and

joke

and seize the eternal,
converse with abstract art.

paint, splash, a whirl
of fingers swimming

for the sun.

 

Reviews

[Touché Armada]

Wow, lookie here lookie here, where did this colourful creature come from?

He is not a baboon, he is a human being.. Oh sorry no you were talking about the AC, oh well its all much the same thing isn't it? You is ar wonderful wonderful wordafall you ar... And I does do love your tinkling about the rocks of this place..... Ahhhh look a comet making shapes in the sky like a sparkler,,, and I always thought they only went one way. =)

this one is a dove in pigeon's clothing hehehehe

[Jason]

"and i sold my palms
to the closest fortune-teller
willing me empresses and rivers
and rabbit-holes into my wonderland "

what a beautiful image, and well written. great job!

[a wildfire]

you're an amazing writer. i felt so many different things while reading.

i love this:
"wish for anywhere
but my room
filled with chocolate fudge
and last night's couscous."

reminds me of when i lived alone.

[Cardinal Robin]

A paradise in a teacup and hell in the tea. What a worthwhile romp through a garden of ordinary madness, freshly painted with metaphoric hopes and secret lingerie. Keep up the great work!

[zig]

well armada said it best i think... and so i will just babble, what else can i do

not sure why you think these are disconnected, i thought they flowed into each other quite well

"that rickety red car we owned
struggled up those gravel slopes:
wayward grip, loose laughter

at the sixty foot drop
beneath."

and

"to jot each ocean down,
each waterfall
a silent train
smiling over bridges,"

man that is a solid, solid connection. oh to be young again, to live in chaos and drink every drop of the unknown, to be hungry and to alway live another day, perfectly immune to the risk.

i thought all of there poems had that adventure to them, btw, i just got done reading a book of shorts stories by dave eggers, "how we are hungry",. these remind me of that, and i think you would really like it.

good to see your page up again.

zig

[Emily B]

ahhhh, I could sit at your feet and listen for days on end. The sound of your sweet voice with words just words that seem to build fairy castles in the air. Your home is different than mine but I see it in your words. I feel like I would know the landscape if I saw it. That on some sunny day I might find my way to you. Your words are a pleasant surprise on a tired morning.