hunger

colour memory
ignited in eyes
sketched in flame light
giving to form
a hunger

ghosting
that necessity, pain
in which abundance is
its own hiding place
the inconspicuous spring

feather bones

bird looks like time
it flies above it

multitude
and flight movement

colours lost within
mountains

home lines end in
land becoming water

through seasons of
perpetual light, perpetual fall

the never-ending begins
what age is coming?

in silence
is no silence

feather bones
lifting the air

profusion

in direct profusion
ferny light
captured green by the interior
a filter in the weeks
heated over by last summer

where is the dryness?
extended
and eliminated
too far from
wet coasts?

reach a hand
beyond reinforcement
a certain fresh forest
or another world
hot slow quarters

paradisical
the passage
seek them, breeze

always found face
outside improves
the molasses of fruit
garden directs its eyes

elasticity

whisper the dry track
veil of ways
dream fuelled
like escapees

this magician
the price of form

I have my words
their elasticity
connects skin
the alive thought

gutters

The privilege of beauty
is something we’ve imagined
rather than paid for.

When it all blows down
who claims the sky
lets dark outside the eyes.

As the garden perfects
one petal, leaves buckle
into heat streams.

The velvet is lush, alien
unlike diesel and gasoline
dripping rain, rather than sex

reminding you
the wall is pushed
by undone gutters.

making it up as you go along

I've been sifting all my life.

Who knows what you're looking for:
pageants of failures staged on memory television.

That may be reality or an exit strategy
(by you or whose army).

That's it: a list, warnings, a series of dreams.

globe

a globe of water

clear fruit, dirty fruit

water that is

water you never get

a circle, not a question

the trace of experience (?)

The real becomes part of the words.
They are said, they are written.

What becomes history is one lead.
Emotion is another.

What is more unreliable?

a key

The Now is surrounded by time.
Occasionally you fear there is no time, only billable hours.

The act as it stands is inconsistent with the models.
What of this failure to identify the measure?

Interests driven by gear, framing of loss and dividends.
So long as it’s written down, like disaster recovery.

There’s a key, silvery, sharp. Where’s the good news?
Where the work is?

what data

we appear as if
of beauty

to increase colour
the rebellion, the bud

dying in the data of time
subversive memory
we are

night-time in sydney

The future often seems like the past, but it isn't.

I am leaving town soon.

Tonight at the rise of the hill, the black sweep of a bat, the skreek.

Now the wind is up, the chill is in.

I feel that my bones are made of sandstone and mildew, that Sydney feeling.

What will I make of the dry, and the desert?

All around me is transport: trains, planes, dogs out walking.

The past was never the future, something you can only earn.

What have you forgotten, now you are seated and staring at your hands?