i walk through toorak

Stepping through this imagination with a pouring red eye

I locate the limpid history of time telling a watch where to go

And it cannot make any logic unveil itself prostate before you.

This can only be distressing, but in a familiar way, like an ache

Only you can identify which can only be mine over and over

Again we mix up what we thought to be clear with what is muddy.

You cower low to the ground with a blindfold hiding the forthright

Our behavior betrays to the casual observers on this tram

South Yarra bound.  Probably, they will not react well to your screams.

Nor is it likely that my face, now in two parts, at least last time in the mirror,

Will invite an invitation to some classy part of town, completely new,

Unpolluted by the stained river that runs by like liquid rust.

Horror be the twenty year-old children fleeing a Chinese embassy

And escaping into a mind that is more amusing that it really is.

pole dancing drunkenly on a bridge

In galaxies, x always marks this spot

You’ve declared war on zombie street lamps

Bigger than meaning, these shoulders are obtuse

Your face hasn’t blocked my imagination

We’re not the lucky few, but the fourth leaf of a daisy

Bridge Rd can’t be the same with broken ribs

Orange juice washes away the DNA traces

I can’t write freely, surrounded by coked out kids screaming, ‘Blame me!’

Amphetamines for all and sundry and cork pipes

Blare music and smoke cigars that explode

The sun will freeze soon enough

Out there, in between definition, is insulated time

With, at least some, thanks to Paul Éluard

bike accident

Awake at last, troubled by dreams of concrete and pedals scrapping the ground in sparkling collision, you stir only to be greeted by the faces of those you forgot.  They do not say hello and neither do you.  Nor should we in circumstances where the conscious reign too high above the sleeping.  The realization that your nightmares propose illumination yet oppose understanding comes whistling in, called from a distance, and all that is shown under lights, as if exposed in the sun of day, is an image that is all too present but cannot be understood.  It is not even the piercing lips of those that stare at you making that noise we heard over and over again, until repeated, that make no more sense that the sound it projects.