Here's a coupla poems I submitted to a local Zine:
you have this memory, aged 7 perhaps,
in the sleepout and tucked in, your brother
can taste freo in the plastic, as she burns
and spectacular gild sunsets, sand in toes
a breath away across the lino,
and you have the scene before, counting
can’t ever trip on concrete-pitted knee-high walls
painted mission brown, now mission purple
cowboys in the bricks, Dad on the piano
with the hymns for the week, and you have
morning in southern city thunder
poems busted in waves
and in afternoon suns
in cars locked in grids
in freeway finger gesture
we wait for clear spaces
and dream new places
as boot smacks leather
echoes cross ovals
and one-eyed whistles
love is a torpedo punt
through the sticks
fifty-five metres out
north of the river streets
wet with ideas
and knock-off beers
the tales of pale ale froth
and the sun hits ocean
in a sherrin-red sky
it’s a dangerous light near the surface. is-
lands. drawn out silence. and like sails in my hands.
prints finger across the brown disconnect of sinew
his boldness saliva in fencepost diatribe, measure
these habits. frail spring afternoon. does not meet
my eyes. gnarled. netted with shadows. a mess of
negative procession, a progression of drive-thru
meaning. droplets on geraldton wax (chamelaucium)
ripples. the ebb, forecast of loss. using my
own words. hands twitching the jetsam. Verticals
Wind whistles around the mining dongar, sun melting across the rust coloured land and stunted shrubs, reflecting of the dirty white tin walls of the windowless buildings.
I lie on my bed watching the fly buzz around the room. The T.V is on, but I am not watching it, it’s just background noise.
The fly is more interesting than the mind numbing crap they put on T.V these days.
That’s my opinion anyway.
The sound of dry leaves and twigs brushing dusty black boots, crunch of wafer thin slivers of dry red mud.
The ancient crack and rumble. Red-rock fists of god and stars. And echoes of songs of giants gone. Gone. Gone…
Red earth moist and thick like congealed blood.
Maps in our veins of blood, mud, salt, blood, mud, salt, blood, mud, salt.
the road scars right, across the
crippled self; also scissored, a
palm of land, tumbling, dwindling,
busting like a burst hot-dog
a groove, a history, a way in,
a fissure of sermons
worn and healed slick
a scoff of wallpaper