It’s nearly dawn in the zones and smoke presses the room. Talk is now inanimate, you can't get away from circles the band pounds them, beer walls become automatic. Can you go far enough away with your poor tongue-tied body safe in ragged circumference? You'd be better off near water or plotless in heat. Come to the river to pray where alien versions connect, gods swinging as we're dodging. Huge elephants dance among us.
Fear the stillness washing away in the heart of rage. You can’t stop to give tribute. Language detaches its tongues tracking this crowd as familiars merge. You’re deceived washed with the eternal, or one of a piece with the new state of hardness, scared of your own versions, your own release locked on top of night, if it’s enough to be discovered.
Into blue
Blue lifts from the horizon fish hide in the eye of the sun. Travelling back over, closing.
The dark water's mouths whisper at the bow white songs.
So wave cuts story in green sea, cross currents.
Salt stings our vision oil spreads surface with shadow slippery, memory's taste.
Journey sticky with scale pattern shaded with weed. And always moving away
Angle of the sun
A yellow gleam bends walls open inside replenishes its fruit a quiet exhaling slips through day.
Breadth of flowers – welcome! extend! Sun shapes the ordinary, an open drawer. The long silence perfects blue walls.
Or in afternoon’s lateness, light of a day’s weight, and instant, encircles the near motionless, books half hidden.
Intercept shape! catching that can. Forms steep and soften, green and white in the window’s presence, brush flowers as though they are slow, erasure
is never complete, curves are wild props and what is collected, never still …
-after ‘Chinese Screen and Yellow Room’, Margaret Olley
Getting burned
‘It’s all gut stuff’ he said or something like she was afraid of the bunnies, or the crawlies ‘the kinder are in the garden’, little stings and fun and not paying attention though somewhere else is here too. The world isn’t made of china things crack, a crisis in the crystal. ‘What is this bombing madness’ is no longer a question and the yards not refuges are where you watch. Come out to play, you will get splinters you have not the stomach for but there is more hunger than you understand, no longer is there time for you if the plants won’t grow.
You can say your finger was not on the trigger the gun went off anyway.
and so ...
Perhaps I never recovered ghosts from the Sounds of ravens given air the Sky tended to spill travel guise that Resembled the thirsty travesty game they Hid within groans phones stank of them Crashed to ring simply dishonestly this Metropolis of summer whether, fine!, it's with Whatever assails phases you into
False dreams of a rose choosing love if Radar blips canker darker in eyes where a Picture emerges rages as high as if Matter itself paused warding the end off. Never comes goes this cloud-waving into Future, no force worse than time, is