to be a human vessel
is to sail the ship of purpose.
*
(If I were an installation artist, I would totally hire a bunch of models/dancers/circus performers/Pilobolus to create a ship out of naked bodies and then blow up huge photos of them for a gallery…oh my god, I could make a huge series of them with different types of boats…but alas I am not James Franco, with a huge bank balance to fund my multi-platform artistry. I suppose I just have to write about it/versify it for now. But seriously, one day…)
this morning I looked down
and found the seasons in my breakfast;
the red and brown leaves of my muesli
the tears of autumn’s fall.
I thought perhaps I was dreaming
but as I spooned my way through the yogurt snow
I found that apricots really were ‘golden’
and their sunshine burst in my mouth.
tbc…
he’s scratching his strings
as if he’s trying
to itch
the sound out.
scratch, scratch,
scratch,
he goes.
the whole orchestra
scrapes with sound.
they’re getting ready
for rapture
so they’ve got to be clean.
In my seat
I open up my chest,
ready to go with them.
My arms spread,
I prime myself for the music -
but as the music pierces my chest
I feel no elevation;
I feel no communion;
no grace with god
just the pounding
of my heartbeat
against my chest
and then it hits me:
you’ve got to have
the itch
before you can
scratch.
one
is always
alone
*
on the tram to ikea:
vietnamese bakeries
the soft cluck of korean
wet eel train tracks
melbourne
always raining
stripey tigers at the station
football:
I don’t get it.
starry hearts of banana
and knuckles of walnut:
mmm, muesli!
*
kid on the tram
blonde boy bubbling:
‘we’re going sideways!’
*
these poems:
like trimmed excess fat
like sparks off a catherine wheel
like cappucino froth
like soap suds
lacing down a drain
I saw a cute guy on the tram today
and then
I saw his ring
*
lighting the stove
the flame
a golden pharaoh’s eye
a sunday in melbourne
imprint
new york faded photograph
so many deaths:
watching the morning news
makes me depressed.
