write a semispleen-laced or quasi-romantic poem every other day or so in July and August

The smallest images
are the most beautiful
to me.

Two passport pictures
of a dark-haired girl
with pale skin – one
with make up; one without.

Sit on my nightstand
and sometimes fall over
when I sneeze or something.

I like the little images
because I have to pick
them up and squint at them
because my eyesight is
getting bad and I have
to look close.

But it’s more intimate
and I like that.

))){

When I was younger
I was an altar boy
Irish Catholic family
Sort of

My Dad was a Buddhist
though – long before
it was cool to be one

I used to carry this
stick with a candle
on top and shuffle

It was all very solemn
but I used to look up
at Jesus on the wall

And I wondered if he
farted like other people
did and that made me smile

_{Redondo Beach 1975}

))){

I have shown you Balmy Beach close
To a thousand times. Each night the
Same hush and waft of August heat
Is my design, each tread upon
Sand (moon-sand, you say, invented
By us from a magnificent
Typo when you thought I said “beam”
Instead of “dream”) glows underfoot.
Each night I find a shooting-star
Caught in my hair-ribbon and must
Feign surprise when it pulls us round
The world. (We invented that too,
you said, breathless into my ear.)
Last night you showed me something new,
And dropped to the sand, ears cocked for
Low thunder. I watched patiently
As you dug through (moon) sand, dipped in
And produced a corked bottle with
All the rumbles in it we could
Want. (I said I did not know that
Thunder came that way, but I think
You said we invented that too.)

Her delicate hands
are busy in her life
busy stitching herself
to things

For she is a pretty
girl – all eyes and
unruly dark hair ever
escaping and flying

And she draws people
to her as if she were
using notions to do so

Attaching them to her
beauty in tiny ways
as strong as binding energy

))){

Last night I had
a nice dream.

I was somewhere
(Bahamas?)
on a perfect beach
of oolitic sand.

And LL glided up
wearing only a pāʻū
skirt and her perky
breasts made me
forget what I was..

She smiled like a
young sun at its proto
planets and handed
me a coconut drink
with the local fire
water in it.

(Coughing..) “Wow!
that’s smooth!” I lied.

And LL sits down next
to me in that boneless
way that graceful women
affect.

(I sit down like a tree
falling on a gazebo full
of trombone players)

Nice day, though. In my head.

))){

I had every intention of
Watching Fellini. It was a
Perfect night, solid cicada
Heat, made for pizza and film noir
And afterwards, black scoop-neck dress
And affected accent. Bella.
Enough times I’ve sensed scent wafting
Of thyme, garlic, cheese, thought myself
Accattone, poured a glassful
Of indolence and waited. But
Tonight I have crushed peaches, good
Prosecco. Bellinis will do.

(for E)

Rolling trailer cage full
of confused sheep – cold sky
dusk with maybe rain?

LL and I nursing tea: she
likes hers with milk; mine
one sugar leave the bag in
please.

Red dirt everywhere and
sheep and canola and wheat
farmers.

Tyres dyed red; clothes red;
conversation about rain and
dirt and test cricket or footie.

Dirt in the gaze of the old
couple eating fries and gravy:
they don’t even see each other
anymore – maybe all the dirt
got in the way.

Decades of dirt and some love
on this ancient land speckled
with kangaroos and an alpaca or
two in amongst the sheep.

))){

Once there was a kiss so good I
Kept it on a piece of paper
And it walked with me wherever
I went, sighing contentedly
From pocketfold or purse. I took
It upcountry last weekend. It
Liked long walks best, preferring the
Intimacy of forest and
Glen, so I walked and kept walking
From the picnic chatter, voices
Blurring each into each until
I could not pry them apart. I
Knew no-one would notice if I
Took one step, then another and
More after that. It would not be
Mutiny, but evolution
And I could see that as progress.
In the deep wood mid firs, pine-trees,
The calm of green I crouched, unzipped
That kiss from its knapsack pouch, shook
It gently, but it fell limp as
Though dead or Miriam, and I
Stood beggar or worse, assassin.
I sat a long time with it, clutched
And turned it over and over,
Fingertips upon each letter
To wheedle out its soul. If I
Dared leave it, disappointment should
Cause it to comb the world for me.
“I’m afraid,” I said to no-one
“It does not give up hopes of me
Yet.” I wish I could say I saw it
Blink for I am sure it heard me.

^{“But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.
‘But you can go on with your painting,’ said the will in him. ‘Or else you can beget children. They both carry on her effort.’
‘Painting is not living.’
‘Then live.’
‘Marry whom?’ came the sulky question.
‘As best you can.’
‘Miriam?’
But he did not trust that.
He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fists.”
D.H. Lawrence/Sons and Lovers}

The hiss of phat tyres
on the asphalt is a
tragedy in the annals
of the Dirt Society.

Still, I passed the
roadie, who looked
surprised and then
angry and attacked
but cracked and was
stopped by the red
light in my wake.

Lunch with the missus
and her fly-away hair
I plant a kiss on her
forehead and spank her
derriére goodbye.

Grumpily, spin high
rpm to the the pool
and wish for my TT bike
which slices the wind
like a fresh razor with
a little hot water on
the lube strip.

))){

This is how they intersect, these
Nightscapes so well-woven they might
Exist as one fabric, one with
One colour on one side and the
Other with surprises like sheen
Or spark of silver lightning thread.
I sit across from her, as though
She is here, tell her what I have
Not told, dark sweet immolations
Of hushed design, knowing same silk
Shivers. I tell her too I see
Her on pink adobe plains with
A dance beneath a sliver moon
And know she has already had
This dream or will before night’s close.