Cycrone

Screamed hot pain

Boiler seas

Higher nose

Inbleem

The cycrone

Has spoken

Lies

Rip, rip the water apart

Wind screams of a ancient past

Knives of hail, knives in your hearts

Cycrone came for our heart

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Buggy sapience

Trolley lives in a allotment empty of grace

She waits for the summer nights for her race

Trips to the arthropods doorstep

Eats lunch with the queen, oh yes

Buggy sapience

Trolley gives a simple box of nuts

Payment for protection from buggy mace

Sips tea and nods agreeing sets

Going back home to bed, so wet

Buggy sapience

Trolley takes her axe to another growth of jinx weed

Sees the nuts from it gather on grounds she is pleased

Kid, it’s not a dream, you bet

Cuttlefish’s eyes, gardeners surprise

Authors note: Inspired by Mills, Jennifer (2018) swimming with aliens, in Overland, issue 230, Autumn 2018

Cuttlefish turn on their colorful display

On and off from my place in this sea

We follow them in this little cove

Are you a eye of truth or a eye that sees the truth?

I’m a intruder, a non cuttlefish

You are not unwelcome, for now

Do we save you with a referendum? Is that how we humans decide things now?

This is my favorite stone to hide under

Our collective energy feeds into your ocean, are you doing ok?

it’s getting too hot for us

I am sorry this is all our fault

Requiem for a restaurant 

piles of grey half washed pots and pans

concrete walls and sterile tile floors
Little blue things in a shelf

Shel of the former place
You would sit on the coner table

Order the usual and sit in comfy conformity 
It’s your usual time 

Your usual place and age
They walk past as your drink arrives 

And stares into see you 
Smiles, hugs, kisses? Not today.

Hide that disappointment 

Earnings are new, red pinpoints
Always orders something they have to tried yet

You know that’s how it always went
More smiles, laughter and food

Smells so great

Order wines to match the drapes?
Your have not always been sad

Empty as you are now 
This place was like a home

A member of the family and it said things so quietly
You only just noticed when they put up the prices

It didn’t seem so full of or on the go
You came anyway to meet your bo

Smiles always now, kisses you adore 
Until today’s grimy discovery 

Piles of half washed pots and pans 
Your handprint leaves a mark on the window

You message a new place to linger 
Little things that you remember is all that’s left

Until that day you forget

Just simply custard 

Human hearts are pie chart resistant a Pigeon beans itself of the upper floor window and a the eggs are on the top shelf 

Cow like men giving little jobs to Swallow like girls, stones in their shoes, rocks tie their songs in the air

Good taste give, the bovine men call them honoury dykes, laughing then coughing black smoke billowing into the air 

Dogs in the backseat of the ute, the company of which is looking at a ancheint dirty pub

The two smile switch on their punk gynocentric music blasting a song about a women who is spilling her guts to confession of her sexual desires

The chase to get away from the bovine spongiform encephalopathy filled smoke on the hot dry tropical iconclastic malevolently 

Gaudy slippery muddily punctuation like pot holes occasionally exposing loose fitting overalls 

Clouds of a stormfront cover Montagine and St Augustine’s watchful gazes as they travel the warm sticky outback

Pertinent driving in the unbreakable Hilux breaks away from the emerging sunlights gaze

Eyes red and wet from the stormy Christmas weather, stuffing the air. The lightning makes a running jump

Ahead a creek is swelling with feelings of epistemological rains searing the creekbed 

They must delay of be cast into the zeitgeist waters and face the banality of the common trough

The bovine men can be seen on the horizon eating fruitbowls of mangos covered in matricide sauce 

 

Bloated firestorm 

Every fire in my stomach 

Tired of the drive from this place

Gloating firefly in the doorway

Shutting down the black marble road

Crowds shoutout for anguish and drama 

Them are surprise to get it, is that the social karma?

Fifty fires, down inside, empathy of the day 

Just the frosty icing licks, just the hatful knife that wil kiss 

The Market Says No (smash up)

Writer economies some prose to the editors

Depend between two continually aware differences

Substantial bookshops to give publisher extent sucsesfully to the poet

Publishers are fiction in a substantial way

Editors managers interfere with the extent of the writer

Poetry rights require novelists prime publisher

More haphazard stupidity and less evenly treated

Novel prizes processed a omission of cases

Write some bulk things even to letter clubs

Lobbying privately reviewed books at festivals first thing in the morning

Sporadic little writer

Efficient newspapers rarely appear to poets late in the evening

Lay a collection of poetry with your cousins poems when usually the prime minister will meet them

(Smash up words from: http://www.sydneyreviewofbooks.com/20-march-2015-ivor-indyk-on-novelists-and-poets/ )

Marathon

The former self

Removed

You find yourself

Starting back

I’m at the day
Dripping with wet red
See the sarcophagus of reasons

Ate the path
Sitting here with me
Bring a new weapon

Mysterious centered tree
Wire in my head
Singing new targets

They thought I was dead
Ever more my life will be this
I take a new clip

Slots and rain
I am my own master now
Rampant and ready

I am not Durundals pawn
Not Tychos
Nor Leelas

They send many to fight me
Not one will survive to make their time
Inside I am free

The new self found

Your ready to be

On your own path

Enter and Pail

Buckets of feelings
Dew on the grass
No one believing a frost that’s last

Ancient haunts of brown noses
Owls that poses a serious question
Lesson of growth lost in twine

Hand on the steering wheel
Way out east
Highways connecting my feelings in wet

Gray noises blown out of fear
Banner men belonging
Clouds and moist fog dye here

Flowers in her broken hand
Not given by this bleeding hart

Screaming noise not put on our earth
In no one does she find comfort

I’m not known for my direction
But I know she’s not lost

One more moment and she treads
Towards the sun