I woke up in a boy | pale | watercolour | colours | Over the ridge to the Yangtze River | huddled in a box as the vehicles moved | spread dust ghosts like | arid meteors | from the bumpy road | into the humid air | prettied with dragonflies | a translucent | shopfront | jewelled with flying | darts | arrows with no archer | arrows from a rotted bow | Walked in the footsteps | of bodhisattvas | I liked the brash jollity | of patriotic songs | No loneliness | pure enough | for me | Stayed up late | very late | long past | my bedtime | A room with crates | they had packed up home | fold an equation | octopus in a bottle | flatten a manner | of living | dispose | of a neighbourhood | don’t build | your soul from maps | that was | Gancy’s advice | Gancy | who drank ink | and was born out of mumps and | firewood | A spirit | that’s portable | In Paris, Paris the dazzling | the collaborated | I woke up in a girl | was always | curious | as I grew | rushed through | vicarious plots | shed selves at bus-stops and family | gatherings | Camouflaged | my being | with day-glo and sparklers | rubber and bullies | a penchant | for Proust | for 1980s | French poetry | Was thrown, like anyone, to the wolves of later | the mournful | segue | to mortgages and sallow skin | paunch and baggy boobs | slipped the tip | of a tentacle | out in a wisp | of cloud | was | mistaken for stillborn | dumped in the canal | ate a train | burned a city, then another | city | Could not | if I wanted to | stay | in the confines | of bones and veins | In Sydney | lay down | in the disc of shade | beneath a jacaranda tree | floating in the fragments | of propositions | I’ll take | thoughts to go | Alive is | reaching the next | person | and Death is | a game of musical | chairs | and dying is | caught between people | Across | the barrier to no

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: August, 2014)