spurtDRAFT

you're dangerous. sitting here. mouse in hand. smile thickens. wryness of breath. and you're bitter. timid, ripe and torn tonight. ripped hard like bustop paper. the breast of us in mourning as suns keep rising. tipping out buckets on concrete, snails drinking as if lusted. blades oiling against edges, the oxidisation kicks in. and we're in a car. fending off the undead. sitting in rapid bunches. a treble clef of meaning. but little else. and we dream we're in buildings. upholstorey torn in sharp cracks. the walnut back of your head. the nine am breeze. but still the lips grip. still we suck in city mist. tastes like chalk. like the back of teeth. like buses without drivers. or your apocolyptic stare. and we're out/

assuredDRAFT

now i imagine us, restrained
after mends street, rivers edge
that clean, sweat goddess
my showered stubble at yr nape
fructose touches between thighs
residing, setting up leather camp
inside you, the searing back
as if made of fingers and mirrors
body built like fabric ice on nipple
our tongues on the skin-hills of you
a wave of wet coffee time behind us
the wake of yr hot vodka blood
a scream of streets, sheets, breezes
the blush dawning traffic
then sleep

RACH 3 DRAFT1

(a long performance poem - undergoing draft - with a view to read as spoken accompaniment to RAC 3 Rachmaninov Piano Concert No.3)

here in this sound
we sit and glare
can you feel the cacophony
the nipple-poking fancy

bold and hard at the corporate sunset of us
in the incessant blue of clouds
a next-of-kin confession
a sirus fantasy
and we fly
alone, together, us
you
yeah you
and me
us

dig these fucking notes in d minor
punching the side of my face
like tucker's piss-weak dance
before home-ec on a 37 degree arvo
the bitumen quadrangle hell of it
a national anthem of cunts
my ear bleeding like a demountable

and i can't seem to grip the clutch
in this dream
as the hill steepens
and we drift we drift
the ridiculous vehicle soars
and these notes
these notes
patter like busted gympie panes
the surge towards brisbane
the fitzroy
the torrens
the gascoyne

and from this box we're watching a hilux surf awkward
to the ditch of main street
stacked like a pile of stale pasties

so now at funerals we sit in circles
of 21st century silence
these keys at my head

and the gun turns in my hand
the reluctant barrel as clean as it can ever be
the sight as square as product
the toussle

and in this vanishing stance, i said
without the point of yellow smoke or red-wine reason
in this remnant land of vodka talk
we walk
in glum scale
across once tuart lands
into coastal plain
a final freedom
without traffic, those cars now long-standing
these echos of shelves
of stocked selves
not needing a grey-beige note
and the movement blends from
one static ladder-point to the next

our global footprint
the size of sucession

they drew maps in sand for us
and the winds tore our faces
like a ceiling of crime
in the newspaper font
the online spectacle
our concrete memes
now part of us
neither veiled nor bikini
our ripped torso manifesto

or a cycle of words to bleed
rubbish in shadow
as no bin trucks gather on corners
no footpath without knee-high oats


each new noise a form
an acacia signia

and we march in splintered packs
unaware of the taste of each other
this plastic wrench at our throats
this stench of memory
unable to share time

the sweat of long-dead relation
the toll of heroic abdominals
of bicep perfection
a golden-tanned erection

and outide windows
they find another rock
resembling us, like us
a bit similar to ours
this new similarity

a spherical singularity
like bought teeth
unstained
from decades of nicotine
and tannins

but the look in her eye
the colour of a pilbara ute
some sacred monstorsity
never a cluster of spinifex stories
watching the snakes swim past in fear

up to my thigh in you
i'm a speed-dating goddess
waiting in turn to fuck your head
one table of bullshit at a time
this school of tangible fucktardery

i watched you being born once
from the safety of my body
unable to bear the gun club comments
the blood of birth in my fingers
the doctor spread you
like a humidicrib gesture
my hands never leaving my arms
elbows intact