Messages of Things
Book Sample


A certain application of the casual
a pomegranate on my barest table
collects attention to its autumn red.
Its call upon the mind is absolute.
It congregates attention like a lover.

Awoken to the cynosure of quiet
I listen to the silence gathered round
a pomegranate on a yellow book.
Like abeyance of words before the softest kiss
its compulsion to the ear is like a dawn.

Imagine now a peacock spread its tail
beside a pomegranate and not eclipse the red
and you will reach the rest at consummation.
Accommodate them clearly in your mind.
Each has come to entity like lovers.

I have this morning calmly taken up
a pomegranate from my window sill,
my hand enjoys a weight of given matter
and fingers have a fruiterer’s fingers’ comprehension.
They contemplate and wonder at the life.

On my table, their common space
a pomegranate and a single rose
has each its own propriety of red:
they occupy the mind without contention
and each has too the deepest red of all.


For a hundred hands to touch you all at once tonight.
but that tumultuous is the sound of four hands stroking!

Then, what does it profit you any to maximize your gains if you suffer
knowledge of damage in your heart?

Desire for death without permanence, desire for life without pain! yet to
desist from the golden poison in the veins!

We’re born naked from the dark and go out naked in the dark,
exchange your coin for night that glints naked in the dark.

Demonstrate the lift and outcry of your person
that opposite of cringe is banners in the sky.

Hesitation is always at the edge for what will lie beyond,
let potential have capacity you put away your doubt.

Life! and you think you have always the rainbow lorikeets,
but the lights go out in the body, the lights go out all over.


Budgie you beguile her time.
she plays with you against her breast,
you so desire her teasing way
of give and take with fingertip
you need to nip and sharply bite
her there; then she herself, my gold-
en one, has some dousing of her
ardour and solace from your play:
if I could only do the same,
have sorrow go and peace return!

Let all of love go weeping now
and all who know of beauty.
the budgie of my girl is dead,
the budgie who beguiled her time.
she loved it more than both her eyes,
the honeyed thing knew her that well,
just like a daughter knows her mother.
’d hardly ever leave her lap
but now and then to bob around,
its chirrup seemed for her alone.
but now it’s gone the way that goes
into the dark of no return.
I cannot like you death who give
things of beauty the common touch.
my budgie’s green’s gone into grey.
I think you’ve done a dastard thing.
look how you’ve made her cry so her
sweet eyes are puffed and wet and red.

Come and come and live and love
and chuck discretion to the wind,
old wankers’ mores drop away.
the sun that’s set can re-arise
but our brief light is only once
and goes the permanent way of flesh.
then kiss me once, and once again
in your own exponential way,
we’ll give computer banks a run.
and ASIO won’t track us down,
those gossipers and malcontents
they’ll do our kissing life no harm.

I’m high as that quick girl who felt
her torrid girdle loosed at last
when she saw those golden apples.

Though you can kiss in ways and ways
how many kisses are enough?
not all the snowflakes fallen
on wintry Saskatoon, not all
these harvesttime Barossan grapes
nor all those stars above if each
were seen discrete and men had eyes
(and time) to number everyone
were halfway near enough to slack-
en off my lust and liking for
your lips, so you I love and you
can kiss and talk and hear and kiss.

Poor bugger you, Catullus, stop your whinge
and accept what you see is now the case.
yesterday, it was, the sun had shone
when any place the girl’d lead you’d come
and she was loved the way no other could.
then anything you wished was her desire
and she was had and gave her music laughter,
yesterday the sun had truly shone.
but now she’s washed of you: let fugitive
be fugitive: resolve, be no poor bugger
but firm and unrelenting, you are tough.
farewell, my sweet. Catullus now is tough.
he does.not require it and you he won’t ask.
but you will suffer memory wanting him.
I wonder who will call in on you at night?
if you’ve any life; who may see your beauty,
who do you love now, making madly proud,
who do you kiss, that biting on his lip?
but you, Catullus, you are really tough.

I reckon he’s miraculous, that bloke
and, although anathema humanly, I’ll
even call him god: he can look at you
and hear your music laugh.

but I’m an habitue of the dark
since you are in my thought; the time of this
here life gives me daily deprivation
and closes up my senses

like a fist; with eyes to see I rarely look
and, where I’d heard unique inflections in
a voice, my ears won’t now discriminate
and my own voice is numb.

that nullness coming after positive despair,
that nullity molests you now, Catullus-
you enjoy nothing, so cities and their states-
men crumple in the dust.

I hate and love, why rankle in that dialectic?
there is no synthesis, it nails you to a cross.

She says she’d rather be her time with me than any other,
than even with the charismatic one, she says.
but then what your lover says in the heat of passion
put it on the wind and write it on the rain.

When she is with her lover she really deprecates me
and that becomes for him his foolish exultation.
a mule feels nothing either, her silence were the true erasure, that
were sound enough, but here she rails and puts out this abuse,
a crying out she suffer memory that dwells and is acidic.
look, she is nettled into saying these self-nettling things.

Please invite me over there,
my music and my laughter’s one.
then from your yes don’t change
your mind but leave your door undone
for me, don’t gallivant to some-
where else but be at home to wel-
come me so we can live and love:
our times will make up memories.
I have lunched and wined and laze,
the thought of you is with my cock.
be sopping moist: invite me there.

To desire and desire and attain at the last
is the true Kosciusko of pleasure I reckon
and I certainly think so now I have had you revert,
my golden-muffed, my interrupted love willingly
into my arms when all of expectation was gone with the wind.
and we will circle today on our calendars, both of us tonight,
once I used to say, Call no man happy who is not born dead,
but now I stand here before you, myself the felicitous man.

They dare liken her to you. well, she is tall and shapely and is
blonde, yes, though I acknowledge she is all of these,
how can they call her beautiful who hasn’t got your sheer erotic presence?
look, she hasn’t got a skerrick in the whole length of her body.
beautiful? that Indian-feather choker shows your perfect neck,
look, you resolve all other beauty in your human being.

My love, you say our life will be as one accord
and have across our years continuance of joy.
god, that you have spoken outright from your inner being
and the tenor of your words has issue in our days,
that a lifespan is permitted to show our love eternal: my
colleague, I mean that it have a daily recurrence in us.

Never has any human loved another as I do you,
never has any man loved a woman as I love you.
no belief was ever held in anyone at all
as the belief that I have always had in you.


1. A Formal Sonnet

When we lie separate at verge of sleep
I remember my being entered you
that well I’d have you remember our prow
-ess of my cock and your clitoral tip
whilst you are slipping down to sleep as well
my love for I’d have entered you far in
to reaches of the dream and have you moan
as you have moaned your pleasure with me full
-y and have your dreaming lips again pronounce
and cry my name my name - oh I’d have done
to you as you have done to me, made green
my general drab and blue the sky for once
to such effect I hear a deep song or
know our times the origin of colour.
2. Morph.

They are peas in a pod, almost, these svelte
perpetual striplings, although the
one is paler, more gaunt-cadaverous
I’d say, and dignified as hell beyond
the other who has entered me that slow,
that softly it was transfer of our minds:
the look within his eyes and thorough smile!
It must have happened there in our embrace
his poppy-beads would touch against my face
and with their scent drive all the pain away
to somewhere else, outside myself I’d say.
But consolation’s your most fickle queen
for slipping off. Still I will be alright
when the brother, old-young gaunt-cadaver,
comes in to see what he can do and switches
off the light. Sleep is good and Death is better,
first rate is not to have been born at all.

after Heine

3. Geography of Sleep

That was good then when the creatures
changed their souls and being at will.
Now, in times of massive darkness,
where is the flint of ancient dawns?

But, then, for us, in these times
was chosen the crying richness of
a single thing, of sleep in which dream
dwells, the liquor of vain endeavours.

Because eternal, God remains
himself and takes no other form.
But wish well butterfly and eclipse,

wish well the creature, sad, unable
to be Apocalyptic angel
who changes form in sleep or dream.

after Cassiano Ricardo

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