September 2017

spring bulbs
and still the words 
ache in us
only when 
it enters us
the cold

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

prayer in fits of ineffability

late afternoon
my shadow falls deeper
into debt

season word
I transplant my heart
into foreign soil

obverse mind
a dusting of light
on the matter

on solid ground
my eyes circumnavigate
abstractions

spring greeting —
my echo awaits
my response

narcissus . . .
the truth that lies
in her eyes
 
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
 
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

here now
the absence i personalised
yesterday

here today
and gone tomorrow
this hiatus
remote valley
pylons empowered
stride the hills
spring days
stretching out
the light
requiem mass
no objectivism
in this grief