A dip for a dollar, a coin in your eyes
Bore onto our gold beads
Explain dolphins to your alien friends
Was on a balmy silver day
Lasting tinctures of single strands of sunlight on whispers of clouds that drip to our outstretched tounges
Quality or sorority, collars and chains
Meaning if this law, this isn’t a brittle magic draw
Drip into dollars, ravens claw
Do we all know the mysteries of Elenor?
Rather than this price, energy is just the working might
Five bottles sitting in the rim
Made of earth, made of glass, spun from of wood, grown from faith, free of sin
full of the flowers of the kings, each dripping with sweet honeydew scent within
pretend they contain your deepest dreams, see the silky skin
the heat, Softness, Full to the brim
I grasp at sunlight to spread upon that skin, to bring it to life, as gaze again
Shock to my scene, a wasp comes in, hoping to score a part of this gorgeous place. It soon brings all of its friends, and they make a neat nest and again I can not be here anymore
Five bottles no longer filled to the brim
The honeydew skilled all over the rim
Spoiled earth, broken glass, burnt wood, chained faith, coated with sin
Adapted that flourishing milk that drips from the succulent box. A unlikely case for a senior caseworker such that begins my appointment with this rocky day. Nourish me, lunch! Bring me my sips of caffeine thoughts! I’m dry from my horse whom came to naught.
Typical upon the municipal, supplication of my heuristic predictiveness, I’m a little apprehensive mystic. Instead other things were going on the sappy worry. Learning about the alien concept and bidding on the mobs feet.
I’m typing my fingers to the bone. Blast and through the morning phones. Grown things grown.
Clearly the pumps down and dump. Blue of heart and pink of blood. Curse the corpse of emotions. It’s a day that strikes my evocation.
Down the waters
Flood the brain
Sea of feeling
Ocean craze
Pure or evil decision to be felt. Crying on a balloon ride beyond a joke. I’m falling in my most empty ways.
Empty of knowing
What mistake
Words have passed
Empty and alone
And here is the sleeping razor
Witch soapbox for a little mousetrap. It’s short and full of minds blooms. Dead and hard in its action, forever crystal in its hate of itself. Duality has its heart fully cooked. Like my most important rainfalls.
Drought tourism
Has taken acting lessons
Misadventure on the streets
I’m sitting on our bed, watching the darkness creep across the street
Little cicadas children hatch in the roots of the trees to crawl up and I start to forestall a night of cream shrieks
out of my clothes, naked and known I wait silently anticipating
titillating
participating
the shown
I want your momentum, your dreamscapes, your flesh against mine
Sheath, shell and reap the kisses and the teeth you touch against mine. Deep inside me, heart beats like the calling, I hear this warm cicada night
Stars bloom my night orchid swoon, engorging like a harvest moon. Cicadas scream as we bloom
Upon my form of lyre, from which I do desire, comes the flanking crops
Up and too, into hear, pain into ecstasy, upon my rear
Purple, your work, draws it’s words
And now, from into your mounds to I give chase, for milk and honey tunes do I need to hear
Faces meet for a repast of lips, it’s a very nice trip, but oh what a trick
I feel your hand below my hip
Little footfall fingers walking across my soft pages, reaching my spine and then down to the other hand playing the next
Often one can feel you break the dam, only to find beavers build it again. Oftentimes I would probably feel anyone but you would fail to break mine so much, that the rupture would be better described as a flooded basement with creaky house attached, but it isn’t possible to be so blasé. I’m flooding everywhere, creaky house pouring like the rain
Down and through this all, my timely means to get to you is but not delayed. For sure as the flood does cease, I am willing it likely to come again and again
Then taste, a good thing inside my mouth, sitting down around a bout, I’m twisted sheets and tongue attached, into caves, crevasses and cracks
No area is to small for my place to drink, lick or eat, it’s all a better meal than ill have this week
Of the time spaces available
Pails of rain disable blue
Creeping winter storm breaks
And those mighty duets take
Our of mind and into place
Aren’t you glad you won your race?
Sunlight is reading the sky’s feelings
fathered triggered by chomping dearest ethers into peepers
The brightening thought is forsake
Leaves open and partake
Sleekly was the blue eyed beast that crept in jungles deeply
Waxy leaves parting gently on its feathered body. I’m hiding, hoping my smell is but a facsimile of it former stench
Beyond my magic, I cannot fight well and I have not had a crystal for a single spell for days
Rays have come through the trees and I hear the beasts clicking maw
Again I find myself feeling the need to thaw myself
Gentle rain falls and it’s very hard not to feel cleaner
The beast is still their blue eyes staring into my hiding spot
Clicking
Into
My
Dreams
I spot a tiny stone
A quartz but it will do
Magical light fills the spot I’m in, just enough to conceal me, from big greedy eyes
I see on the ground where the the stone was, and their are two triangles crossed
Ducks. Moons. Eternity. Tamed memory.
Little things I keep alive in my mind.
Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. It’s still hard to find anything that will ever replace.
Eclipse. Moonshine. Moonstone.
Pentagram, in a illustrated book.
Never, ever, even being.
Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. Again. Again,
Pain gone? That’s a comfort. For some.
I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. Again. Again.
Desolation in the empty.
Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. Dissipating.
Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? The life that flows through us, it’s trying always to escape.
The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time.
Yours, to brief.
mine still lingering
I ask why
This moist morning due
a Friday’s moves
Choice tickets torn in two
Recant the wolfs howled they cant survive on rice
Blue plants given a chew
And waiting in ice cream parlors was the way for our crew
In lieu, in lieu
Impressionist duels!
Dying for the winters eyeshadow
Crushed by marrowbones grown in thick orange groves
My queen, I brung down my life for your winter
I have no use for myself anymore
Give me leave to dot my eyes
Oh I cry, oh I cry
I’m coming down from the highway of the straight. Richard flower blooms it’s gray history of fraught. Chatter of its timely resolution pistol.
Diminishes humanity to gain humanity yet takes all of the sodden Justice who has bled her last. Little “can’ts” wispy flowing with no more worth. Difference socks slide.
Humanity is not going to bring it’s cloudy loftiness down. It yarns victims vast value into resilience soup. Wearing its weakness as a badge of flags high on the lonely hill.
Then again the blood works it’s taste of damaging anger. Tension storms to take humanity’s clouds above again and again to shake a hatred of the snowfall. That feeling is the loss of ourselves within ourselves again.
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
Upside album in my head
fungal trampoline yard it fills
Source and as we sing trills
Cure pedestrians pliers on roads
Crows team in political memes
Keep rocks towers to lean
Eastern west-men keen
Two eggs, laid down by the corridors
Sure as mortal days escape by the west coast
Rolling boulders feel the way of the mocking birds
Roasting legs dripping starlight onto the verge
Up in my estimations, high sky crosses the absurd river of ice
Titanic served salmon on a bed of white rice
With such luscious little smiles, scales and forgiveness in the rails
It’s the day of the cowardly snails
Poppin and rocking out with the shocking news of people not along
Are they digging dirt, shifting mirth, Eating in a pop-up park
Booking from, a booking dot prom
Glass slippers rented cheep
Angry ground tilted into the surrounds, lark heated pool
Nazareth and his bloody teeth seem almost like heaven now
As sold becomes double the rent, triple the whalebone spoons
Dead dogfish, read a wrong east
Now how do you do?
No one thing has ever really described the Acacias in the morning in autumn.
When they flower in springtime, that’s when people see them.
Big yellow pom-poms hanging out egg yolks, fluffy but when wet a yellow painting that’s leaked over the grass.
It’s hard not to miss that. I suppose.
It’s in the autumn I think their best beautiful display is out, because no flowers, but they always seem a bit greener. Like they have all summer stores the green and now it’s overflowing into their leaves.
That green, it’s the best green. When the frosts come and slivers of ice melt on the leaves, the green comes out even more somehow. It’s the green of life. You can see them hold it. Store it.
Then as it matures it turns yellow and grows and they let it out with the yellow flowers, letting it spill across the country. Letting the life out, all over the ground and into the grass, the other plants, the animals and then me.
I know though, the summer will come then. The heat and rains will fall. The life will be stored again, in the acacias, the wattles. If it’s not, who knows if it will last all the winter.
The first frost closes in on my flesh like a falling leaf, dying in its orange light. Pattering sighs of ice melting towards a harsh stream. Rotting pumpkins sit being slowly nibbled by rabbits, getting hungry and trying to eat as much as they can for a long cold winter.
I open the frost inwardly, hearing crackling thunder of the last summer storms across the plains. Dark bark, scraped off trees defeated by another encore of the days.
Slippery streets, full of black ice, steering carts and buggies around gets dangerous for the livery. Most of them have tasted the new grapes, thinking of them on long trips as the city is emptied out of suites. Green velvet cake and fresh iced coffee greets them in the tea room, to remind them of the snakes who will not be seen in the winters haze.
Roadworks start in ernest as none may know they need to keep from doing such things when they suited can see them. Orange hatted daisies are but only paid slaves to the white ghost gums, whom keep them under close eye.
Reduced flower tears coating my purple blood
I’m a hex owls’ quarry, digging myself under the lust
Least I welcome a thunderstorms blight upon us all
Poison flows in my mind, trying hard working it’s very bind
Cowering does not save my life
All of us stand, waiting in a passion for a self-contained prison
Earhole, homeless, scrape, blood all over the sidewalk like sunscreen on a beach-ready body
I don’t really know what a beach-ready body is, I saw it in a magazine
Old blue necklace on a woman who looks disgusted by the screen
Trees leaves falling by the slippers we all wear, fashion of the reaping consultants
I get mine by the factory outlet, never wear them and they sit in a carpeted closet by a set of skis I wore only once
Waiting still for the passion to hit me, I read a blog on my WordPress while eating sultanas
Cone of my own thoughts written they’re from years ago, just orange juice slipping into a skirt
Headphones, its playing musing time dilated crimson finch songs to the tune of stairways
I sure start to rank, my old thoughts are but commonplace now? Is this what it means? Meaningfulness?
Open the pod bay doors, HAL it’s time to restart things again I think as I get on my bus
A city has but branches of the commoners
Paved over with the solid tiles
I’m only inside their nests observing their movements, obsessions right and left
They seem to like to spread them up and out
Build a metal roof and add more cement
Move around like ants though none is the queen
They seem to congregate just to be teamed
Every one of these nests is a little different
Some have tall metal buildings in which they seem to collect their food and then go to smaller ones they sleep in
Others mix them in almost chaotic ways
But never are they confused by this the locals seem to just imbue the knowledge to younger ones
Occasionally they travel between the nests, sometimes to visit, sometimes to stay
Today I noticed they use little lights to help guide them in their ways
Are they afraid of the dark or just unable to see?
I’m tempted not to state my interest
Moons sky brings me back to reality
Barren buildings and owned killings
Faces swapped so none can see
Masks are commonplace and I know them more by this icon than a so called real face
Mulling over my inability to make my way
Yoga music playing on the railway
I have a mask as seen by you
No one else knew that my mask was so true to my real face
Brilliance from the knife spliced into silver flesh, flesh of the new
Splashed on the rocks and a darker rotting core-flute, blue blood, red blood, all mix
We all woke, mention ash falling on asleep birds
Climbing stairs is my new pastime
Eating all the clouds
Breaking all their moister
Mawl down the lighting and the ice
Filling bellies full of watery vice
Brace, riding this carrion is hard
They eat their way scaring the sky
They are serving tea and biscuits in the first class cabin
There’s a cat sitting on the asking to see you
To say mice have taken over the parliament of owls
The shallow black waters running in the creeks and valleys, so nothing can be drunk.
and I have a home that I have a hawk down into the grass
I heard from the frogs you had a quickie at the gym
thinking is I think he wouldn’t stay here with the others
Berries won’t come in the droughts that have harmed us
Blood has spilled as the carnivores have even starved
Yet all the mice have done, all the mice has won is a deadly fight for life
Just you say, I’m sorry Darkly.
Damn
Blue the distance
Convergence we gather/crosses we shatter
I wish I was bulletproof on the tune player
Does it matter? Rafters/plots pantomime horse slayer
Cram
Leave this wish ant
Apple tastes, butter grace/fly buzzcut shone in the race
Moon kisses her mace. She wields it with all her grace
Flavour/silver bottle dies in a haste
Stamp
Is that a quote from Immanuel Cant?
The rush, the push and fuss
Brindabellas ancient and old
Long stories they tell and have told
Crush, crush the leaves of late summer fuss
Dry mould, blue fairy Wren, oh gush!
Comfort speaks of me and my red cloak
Under those hills she sometimes yerns
When she’s angry, they burn
I can find her then, just like the Wren.
Will she be ready to join me? Travelling this mortal place?
Not till the oceans boil, and the dark wolf throws his muzzle and gapes
It’s taken all I’ve lost and all I’ve earned to find peace in those words
In the meantime, perhaps I will spend some time
As a blue fairy wren
Dodgers on a street mistreat all they greet Moldy shirtsleeves looking in the dirty earthly thirsty drags
smelt like the strike of blight, no they are not alright
Podgers conjured by the constabulary
thicken the air with their reactionaries
pressed clean curt is their mirth
gelt like the pike of mights, no they are not right
In the new leaves I lookseeing growth makes you think your off the hook
theives takes all they can
no matter how fast you ran
you can’t even remember your grans
memory gone from their nous with haste
kicking the can along the road
crow watches swooping low
crook took it all and your stuck to the roads
they built them like the romans
absent potion to take us from this location
read or seen in the depth of mind blue and black and full of rind
pieces falling over themselves to prove their mine
jumping thumping in that dark clouds or just sitting in simple mounds
some left bereft of wisdom and grace
others given life by the fleshy roots
a tree, kurrajong above sitting in a grove
deep a creek runs smoothly over granite stones
drying yellow grass fields around
black seed pods scattered around the ground
a faint hearted smile from a girl sitting in this tree
singing softly words and thoughts about who she really is
a little altar is nearby, resplendent in dawning lights
decorum forum this autumn festival praxis for that rat flesh underminer
bourgeois terrine poisoned with benzene
on muddy moss rest us all
soul diviner I arrived here
fear this social fetish or is that all we have left to cherish
Madam Bovary
every treasury is a menacing menagerie
factory thunder blinders
hanger allotment, down the street
information forgot that, oh how it reeks
Bleakness in the meekness of my weaknessesgrievances in the darkness
sharpness of my scars
thrust my distrust
in society quietly ebbing this uglyness away
trending on the busway
eucalyptus oil and ledendary threading
thrift shop mending my grifted mops
copping, chopping the dross away
motor floater fished from ocean emotion
devotion of this seating area
brings me memories of Bulgaria
rescue my venue
address the menu I would lent you
knew that true is my crew
through and through
first touch of youlike the kiss of silky milk
covering my skin
it’s beginning
I can hear the healing
in my veins
don’t look twice
I’m sorry this is to nice
I’ve wanted this for so
Long
