this is some of the
territory from
which we strayed in our quest for the land of prayer
when we fly now, lower than hair on the body
breathing the glow of the
trees
the everywhere the moon always was and rests
the territory that
the blowfly makes
black ducks. They fly over in the night and create stillness in a body
the ironbark is slow to go up in beauty the ironbark is slow upon the
land
I shall not be haunted, but do you remember black tree ants dying?
My fingers curl towards the East
the mountains took a long roll outwards they were a fan in my heart
the mountain and its cragged creeks
my brains sleep in the marsh
the rocks are the ocelli in my blood
the soul sound the brine sky
bright wastes
voices spoke for me across the desert
the bare commands of the soil
earth bastion opposite us
those who study the soil find friends with the giants
dawn creeks go by, go by dawn creeks by twilight
now complexity came across dawn deity’s face
a geology of
contrary
responses
the moon blows red
and what of man? So long as he holds influence the earth dreads its
very own water babies
the magpie spoke as on the
grounds of the immortals
For different reasons there might be things that curl up and things
that last
You are evolved at the bay of life, and can come back whenever you want
Dust is your conjurer
I believe in life after death because things always are, they always
extend
the black sons of waterlilies
one of us is going to be told a long story by the dead
Pictured by the dead, told by a longer language
I quite like listening to the words that have puzzled me since I was
made tenant
words that would feather us
I had the sense I could drink in the darkness and get it down on the
page
in the shadow’s keep
His own death, but that is not held, nor secretly discussed, emblem to
emblem
a truth veiled as in its veiled effects
something stronger than our everyday shadows perpetrate
Yes, there are palace guardians. They are paler than thought can see
—
eschewing effective moderation of sorrow
curtains kneel, bereaving at
the laundry
on the pastel eve of his departure the delicate colours of the fading
house
chaos is the last labour of salt
strange and erudite sobs and passions
Like me to sign you? asked the ghosts of the past
quiet ruin is the conversation of the bulbs
the still of the dawn of the Halloween time
sweet o chilly calm
Don’t be less than strange with them
like a thin fossil that moves outward at midnight
never think to pull your whole self out of there, moon swallow and dive
those being lived again are better off
Doctors only made loyal friends Santan Eve, Santan Elly
boiling down folded blankets until of course gnostic, caustic, sticky
Rooms to let. If you don’t speak English, that’s
O.K. Voices must be
rusty or volcanic
he swept his voice a grand piece gravel
dagger and tie
Creatures made out of morning sun claim their first victims
we knew him, for the shark was having its birth with him
It’s not Cak the duststorm but Thud the spy
in Sea Pew Up Eye Hunder came
Keats can admire bedroom techniques for the Sabbath
her mother, whipside, genitally, over the fridge
I’m blunt, but then I’m twentieth century man I
suppose
Funny lad, brought up on opossum
feudal relish
she painted all that she didn’t understand white
Cider moves through his moves like a glitter through satin
We went well inside the harpies’ birthplace. They said they
gave us
jelly
I entered my penis today, and shrank like a gem
Fat pilot recalleth his
broods
—