The Rooster And His Family


The light fades
But then someone else's light will be peaking
And a train crash was right on time
Leaving was different this time
The tallest building in town has difficulty capturing attention
There are no birds to roost on the sills
Concrete stones rest down by the elevator
Aboriginals walk past with smiles and suits
What is the matter at hand, what are we stopping at?
The date is someone famous's birthday
We light a fire and listen to the rain over the bridge
I know there is no money for travel this year
Travel up and through the distortion, with the little birds
It's been twenty years since Rwanda, one since the end
I decided to kick at the announcement
Decided to sit upon the large square ashtray
The last monument of the city's centre
Back to Back, looking up, looking across
Cigarettes, on our favourite solitary horizon
The court house, alone, walking to the botanic garden
Fences to burn, to jump, to build
Drive while sleeping, hear music, invisible
I can't return and I won't taste those years
I can see the melting roads turn into new shapes
Shadows are hard to remember
The music of the Go-Betweens I will keep
They where never owned exclusive
There are so many people against the words and wind
I love the ones who sleep in their car against the fishing rod
The others I can not remember terrible or well
I knelt at the feet of the statue of Yeats
And was placed in a dream of a bird who watched me alone
Goodbye, Cockatoo, watch for the grain
Watch for the neurosis psychosis
The Rooster and his family



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lake Daff-Dilly

Image
Fish on the water Scales floating back and forth Grey clouds hanging high White clouds beneath A naked man asleep Drowsy with whiskey Strange sunlight on his calves His chest slowly rising, slowly falling The smell of wild herbs Smoke from the kitchen fire Sex on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly Old myths talk of death The women think of birth Some wish they could leave The men pray on boats Trout stumble in their wake Drunk on the water's cold The flies were made by old hands The rod belonged to a dead uncle God I hope there is more whiskey The fire is still going I want you on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly
Read more

Blind Me And Guide Me

Image
What is it you want me to believe in? Is it the flock of birds flying like joined roses floating The peak of sensual age? I turn Twenty Nine and the climax is mine The plea of a generation held together by torture? The torture of the prophets- Whitman, he nurses us Is it the course touch of a hand roughened by sand and rock? The path that applauses every step to Sodom The generous buddhist- bearded with eyes closed? In bed with the russian before dawn, We Let Him Down! The cold winter warmed by cynicism and a centuries irony? You can warm my arse with your country charm The poets lining their pockets with fools gold? Lining up to be shot by the artists- a war with out generals The skeleton with eyes to the stars? Awake and noticing how the apple never rots Is it the shop keeper that keeps everything shaded? The man who keeps a statue of Apollo at the bottom of his pool The mongrel God of Egypt and Babylon? So large his nose was singed by the sun Is it the song of hope written in the s
Read more

Whose Language Will I Speak?

Image
Allow me a little time to rest the clamour Upon the contours of your form The mirror gaze within your reply Will flash and fall and rise and build response Verbal shouts and gutteral groans In my room we both are right In hotels we are wrong Where will we die? Where will we scatter? Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice Before that I will paint you I will bury you in colour, on canvas While you tell me of your youth Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly The clamour is merely collection of one stands A collection of songs Trapped within my head, resting on your form And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach As your leg is raised and it is an arch One to hold and make prayers from As I bow down and taste the flesh of man What will happen to us? Where will you die? You who was born to the poet and the siren Where will I go? Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hi
Read more