Archives for posts with tag: fp2

Private collector |     | Honey, slowly syphoned from the bone | and gold in coffins from the teeth | owned gold |     | On my own seeing | dine |     | gnawing to the silent core |     | the sweetness |     | royal | and more intense | being only mine


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Advertisements

Taking video of Lucy Jane | but the bank had threatened to foreclose | Toys on the lawn in the mid-summer sun, you couldn’t get your fingers straight | The shot is real slow | We’d meet up again, Tuesday, on the train | When Rae was still working | and the band came on late | but was so good | The yellowing grass | the scent of burgers grilling towards dusk | They explained the concept of the apogee | I loved the way they were so thoughtful | and patient with Simone | Those old jeans with the frayed hems | and people who tell you It’s going to be okay | and There’ll be better days | All the horses stood back up | after the rifles and the smoke | they had to use a tractor by the pit | And people were asking, What planet is in retrograde? | and What is a Gemini? | We stayed up into the early hours, losing track of time | and the solicitor came in to Morricone | but where was Clint? | Only a rough draft, but Rae was pleased | They were drilling us on opiates | Karl was going through one of his phases | he was obsessed with the moon | we couldn’t believe | the stuff that was coming out | It wasn’t great, but it was enough | and anyway | who really needs | more than enough?

Stuffing feathers into his mouth, afterwards | and his eyes were just right | they fitted the space I had | Streams of traffic for miles ahead | in both directions | it was just a feeling | but the monsoon was near | and I wanted to speak to my wife again | So Roy came round | and we listened to thrash metal on vinyl | from way back | we were too old for that | but who knows the young | better than the old? | And every day, the Astro Twins forecast for every sign | The gravity | seemed to grow | her footsteps dragged | we wondered | how did they get those effects? | But Rae said it was real | and Margie laughed it off | she was | dressed as a vampire | They thought it should’ve had a hard, cold centre | not be so gooey | After a few hours | the vodka began to ask all the same questions | as the time before | You guessed | we were close, but we | couldn’t see the summit | He could get by with Karl | but spent an awful lot of time | trying to keep from himself | the truth | They could get through | it wasn’t right | He didn’t want love | or honesty or | loyalty or | kindness | He just wanted out | He just wanted more


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

I wondered whether they were running drugs | across the country? | Her spirit mouldering | in a corner of a room | the walls a pistachio green | the pictures her children left her | slowly fading in the sun | You hid the river inside you, its cool black depths | secreted under your phone or demands | from the Revenue | all the time you wanted to float away | but could not | belonging as you did to attitudes | Filed under “Missing Persons” | she let the brightness in | put her head on a silver plate and carried it | the villagers | were lighting lanterns | was it a ceremony? | He didn’t know | being a stranger there, and even more | a stranger when he went home | Searching for the highest high | in backpacks and suitcases | died of thirst in a cargo hold | died of thirst | gradually, over time, being swept away, died | of thirst | in a long, black river…

Her children spread and married | some had kids | some stayed single | the buildings gathered | the gardens, the balconies | the lawns with plastic toys and barbecue area | and weeds | where some died by misadventure | some died from skyscraper fall | or from feeding their horses the wrong diet | or parachute failure | Their seedhead float | and slow, domestic diaspora | they thought they were tending pets | or buying charcoal | Mining silver | for the platter | and the stream | doesn’t flow in inches here, or inches there | but as one | and along its tangled thread | the spring is in touch with the sea | He turned into a donkey | and she into an ape | and in the gloom of their fable | fleas shared them | and the fleas | told a longer story | with a longer journey | and at the end | well, there was no end, just a kind of Well, anyway


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

I’ve been hurt | but I don’t want to hurt back | I want to love people | And a desert sun | like her candour | very bare | exposed to the last places | no terra incognita | but all we see before us | still there | still gone | Perhaps that Peter Pan Motel | was in Las Vegas | it would make more sense? | or | as much sense? | Letting the moth out | from under a glass trap | of tumbler floored with postcard | into the late March air | dusk | Her voice is | fragile | though it holds | up much weight | in publications such as | Vogue Girl Korea, Ache Magazine, and Vision Magazine | a gorilla sun | more in common | with the sense of fire | the gripping of the burning truck | from the inside | exploding outwards | as the fuel tank blows | The room is | cluttered | with mainly useless things | old things | worn-out things | unwanted things | too many things | it seems | to make a start on | getting rid of them | and though you’re young | you already belong | to history | like when you | threw the javelin at school | or found yourself alone with Peter J. | and the dumb | unspeakable | quiet | after the track | had ended | and the fizzy | glitter of the static | had vaporized | like an | impractical material | now mainly used | in maritime and aviation applications | An attack sun | a gunship sun | an opponent | on the chrome and steel | and carbon fibre | and the street restless | with people wanting | to hurt you | are you turning into | the end of their war? | Love is | powered by a heart-echoing | big kick drum | for you | a hot sun | even at dawn | outside the chalet | love is | a lot of going nowhere for you | why won’t it | get there? | And the sun | and love | and the shadows | attendant | you try to | turn away | from the pulled guns | and the smack and ruin | it will take time | like anything | it will take time | but for a while | you’ll live in it | this hollow | hole | in the day | this weirdly familiar | dot | in the terra | incognita | this sum of remainders | this iridescent | snare | this conundrum | but even the people | I try to love | they turn out | hurt | And then | the sun


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

So we’re in the car | driving through the city | It’s a nice car | it’s a shitty neighbourhood | it’s a so-so city | and the car’s not | that nice | the neighbourhood’s | really shitty | we’re already | feeling old | and the day | feels old | as we drive along | already worn-out | ungratifying | we decide | we need more | gratification | or at least to get | over the bridge | where are we going? | does it matter? | just somewhere else | until our real lives | begin | this city | will do until April | then a better one | will come along | surely | We know some things | and we | talk about some of those things | some we | leave out | of our conversation | most, actually | So sad about rich people | in their rich lives | thinking | we want | to be them | well | too bad | It’s not about loving | and it’s not about taste | It’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | it’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | and we like the barbershop pole | could watch it go round all day | but we don’t | and the light is good | poised | like it’s not in time or something | like it is in San Diego | though we’re not in San Diego | and do we want to learn a language in 2018? | wow those Louboutins | spiked lurex pumps | shame he might | lose his sole | but then again | it’s competition | maybe someone might | design a cooler shoe | using Pantone 18 | 16 | 33 | TP | and anyway | can you trademark a colour? | yeah yeah but it’s not just | a colour | it’s a colour used in a specific | strategic | stylistic | signaturial way | authorising those shoes | as belonging to | a particular designer | and it’s not about loving | it’s not about taste | it’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | it’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | So we take a little pick-me-up | continue with our drive | and irony’s over-rated | and the language feels so dated | and I’d swear they are related | they look exactly the same | but later after dark | when we pulled up in waste ground | they were all dressed up in lights | and we don’t feel so old | they shine as they move | and they come down to us | they dance so fast | you can’t really see their limbs | so we don’t need the summer | we don’t need | the future at all | we don’t need the boutiques | or the craft wheat beer | and we are not | going to Uni | or to South East Asia | it’s not about the money | or the bitches or the dogs | it’s not about loving | it’s not about taste | it’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | it’s not about nothing | when you feel that sub-bass | Sub-bass


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

We went in to check out the show | On the pavement died saints and martyrs | It was business as usual at the Palais | we stopped by for beer and fries | And the lights on the matadors’ suits | sparkled | like the shards of coloured glass we found on the beach | held up to the sun | we couldn’t quite | fit our seeing in | On the other side | of those instants of blindness | I heard the ocean just | doing its thing | putting up its defence | making its case | for a large | share of oblivion | or a small | pinch of remembering | if you | thought you could do it | Superseded | range they said | we couldn’t get the parts | and a tech-head shrugged her shoulders | they didn’t any longer | provide support | When the first | tear-gas was fired | the crowd began running | a species of parrot went extinct | a new | intestinal fluke was discovered | the people dispersed | most of them | the army moved in | We sensed | a certain froideur at your parents’ | it seemed to me like the beginning | of a break-up

Some was lighter, the colour of a Pinot or a Grenache | some darker | more Malbec or Shiraz | Where it falls, on dirty flags or sand | on frosty cobbles | dusty tracks | there is a world | the floor | beneath the furniture | and beneath the floor | the earth | Born with slightly deformed legs | I couldn’t run or jump like other boys | I’ll choose | a different passion | and that passion | will lead me to a different end | But nothing ends


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Where the dead so gracefully | mimic the living | with echoes in their shoes

Across the station floor | just after rush hour |     | But the emptiness inside us | in which we render solid | the objects of our departure

Upstairs | the Sandersons move |     | creak underfoot | overhead | from underground |     | passengers drawn across the city | reading of Trump and Europe

Cold air |     | the ghost’s | carcase |      | carved into provender | jewellery | even shelter

When the WiFi goes down |     | the boy in the black | blazer comes in |     | the lodger |     | stirs in his room |      | plays desultory fragments of tunes |     | on the piano

Slippers | one | turned over |     | baggy, the leather | space |     | a pouch |     | formed from the long | wear of intimacy | blind | feet |      | and the miles of steps |      | and the hours of standing

Soles | in one room | planed | to glass

Dreaming | rendering the book |     | a gas with arrival |      | a mist |     | and the ankles

connected

unkissed


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Lost touch |      | The folders and the files | made of stone | water | lisping from a hero’s mouth | the space | rendered solid | the distance | frozen in blocks | like ice, but warm… |     | or warmer, in May |      | with young green |      | Cast house |      | sound on the bare stairs | the carpet lifted | paint |     | spatters on the floorboards | and the stereo |      | pigeons |      |

descending |      | the ghost with no shoes |      | the way back lost, but the way there | never-ending

couldn’t drag me | away… | Pausing |     | looking up |      | waiting for the other

Extruded silence |      | Drop |      | Coming home |      | Bumping into | the lodger

Ferns | out of the enamel |      | Across the wire | the fox-shit and dragonflies |      | and in feathers’ | tornado angel | turning |      | through the twisting snow | the echo | the wild horses


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Called up the sea | from where it slept |     | And the stones were drawn slowly back and forth | foam tendrils | back and forth | and the beach grew and breathed | and sighed and | the moon crunched in its orbit and ground round | on its axis |      | the rabbits fled across the field |      | Commuters | felt the train draw on power |     | The seeds of eyes | lay dormant but were sown |      | Cold waves | smoothed the pebbles | and the pebbles’ pelts | were slicked down |      | And the story’s black | seed | was carried a long way | by gulls, by trucks, by rumours |     | yes, by lovers, because there will be romance |     | Caught | in a niche of dirt | between two gutters |      | put out its trembling ghost of roots |      | white roots, the colour of oblivion |      | And it became a real meeting | and when their skins flowed | over each other | they didn’t notice | the sea had woken

They breathed and grew | coastlines | odd shoes | found in the street |      | They were full of the most generous rubbish | mounds of it grew | over the years | collecting flowers and toxins |      | Despite the staggering assertions | of the sun | they often lied | knowingly | not great lies, but small | facile lies | to ease their days |     | who doesn’t? |     | In the morning, they rolled the moon out of their bed | and brushed its cool dust from their bodies |      | On the shore | of a distant inlet | where the waters | were the colour of de-silvering mirrors | for our purposes |      | their sighs |      | entered |      | and in the sides of smooth, rolled pebbles | eyes opened | and seeing | and blindness | began…


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

The music gathers in its hands | what we left out of our lives | yesterday | and the day before | and what we’ll fail to | reach tomorrow | and tears it | gently apart inside us | but not only inside us | because we aren’t | only inside us | Ecru | pullover | and the shadow of the desk lamp on the blank wall | and the thunder made us duck | and laugh | the books we would read | the warmth we would hold to | the lightning we never saw | and always | just beyond the words | we used to | speak about the music | a breathing | hyper-calm | banality | tilting slowly | into euphoria | All the passengers | first lie down | asleep on the train | are they asleep? | dead maybe? | then all the passengers | inflate again | and float into the suburbs | of the edges | of what they left out of their lives | today | and yesterday | and what they’ll fail to reach | this evening | and tomorrow | evening | and those oddly | unimaginable things | call to the passengers | somehow | we have taken our place | among them | and after our catnap | or our death | we sit up straight | reach for the Oblomov | re-start our knitting | and the music arrives | to obliterate | and to illuminate | and to seem | to irradiate | in passing | the silence of the landscape | beyond the windows | and inside | the child’s pink dice | inside the drawer | and inside the cucumbers | wrinkled like cetaceans | dreaming | pickled in the jar | on the shelf | in the kitchen | and we try to | gather the music in our hands | but it won’t cohere | so we leave it out | of our lives | and the music says | Don’t worry | There’s nothing you can do | or be | that can be left in | the strange | collection of your memories | It stays mysterious | some things | just are | because you begin them | but can’t wait around | to their end | moments though | they last | I am a firework | thing | if you | listen | If you put that | WOW! | to the bed | embers | soaked in | adolescent | cider | Just feel | a little | euphoria | if you can | and when I am over | there will be your day again | like the terrain in sunlight | after you | emerge from a tunnel | and it won’t be the same | but it won’t be different, either


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)