September 2017
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spring bulbs
and still the words
ache in us
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only when
it enters us
the cold
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dead lives matter too
Boneholders, meshed within flesh. Wonderless, breath balloons squirming unheard. Worm-worded. Hegemonies of absence once upon their time. Gasping and groaning, Maui wriggles away into stillness and silence.
grave matter
in memory-made
once with words
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prayer in fits of ineffability
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late afternoon
my shadow falls deeper
into debt
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season word
I transplant my heart
into foreign soil
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obverse mind
a dusting of light
on the matter
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on solid ground
my eyes circumnavigate
abstractions
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spring greeting —
my echo awaits
my response
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narcissus . . .
the truth that lies
in her eyes
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Remember Man
Is September always the cruellest month? The inexorable path plotted towards the vernal equinox. Hiruhirama (antipodean Jerusalem). Pine and midges pollinate the air. Breath-bruised now and at the hour of our death. Memory and desire. Dull roots of absence quickened with spring rain. Self-emptying breath. Throat strangled. Incoming wind choked off in an almost wordless stridor. "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!"
southern cross
evening shadows clutch
a handful of dust
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Focal Point
Living things are defined by their ability to eat, move, reproduce, excrete, sense, breathe, and grow. How many have to be taken off this list before I lose definition?
twilight mist
whisper-words
hang about
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here now
the absence i personalised
yesterday
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here today
and gone tomorrow
this hiatus
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remote valley
pylons empowered
stride the hills
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spring days
stretching out
the light
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requiem mass
no objectivism
in this grief