The dog dribbles her yellow
Bouncing ball near the fridge full of plastic packaging
Destined for the digestive tracts of marine life,
Her naked brain plays like a child
Innocent and void of narcissism, separatism, racism,
Religiosity and a hand full of other human frailties
Its Friday night and we normally let the kitchen relax
And order takeaway anyway.
The kids have evaporated into the dark room
Of virtual civilization and Skype tripe,
And the dinning table continues to push up last week’s chrysanthemums
A reminder to my wife I deserve the last of the chocolate muffins
She baked for the kids.
I might go shoot the television in the living room with the remote
And see what happens,
Maybe its time for the news, maybe they will announce the war is over
Maybe they will tell us bankers have found the money they stole
And we can all just focus on peace and productivity.
Tag Archives: writters
The dog dribbles her yellow
I have just rifled through carpenter’s pencils, screws
And surplus washers, for enough shrapnel
To rent three meters or so of Glebe point road
A stone throw from the bread barn
Their coffee dazzles my clay tongue.
Large metal birds turn up their noses above me
Their wings cast shadows like clouds
Over a sequence of diminishing terraced roofs
And soaking in the arrogance of an unsweetened frontage
With just one small faded sign “The cornstalk.”
Drugged by a nostalgic smell of straw
Expounding from pre satellite leather-bound paper
A bookstore with its own microclimate
Of sun and shade wood and plaster
Every flat surface except an over sized goat track
Was pressed pin drop silent against books and boxes
Leading up the back to the blue room where all you can hear
Is the sound of a dog barking softly through a tin can.
I raise my ears into the anonymity of a brown woolen beanie
And perch my steel caps on the run of a small wooden ladder
To get a crow’s nest view of all the poetry.
My sofa is a book-yard,
A silent crash;
Anorexic pages thickened with irony,
A poet’s graveyard in my living room,
Dulled jackets half open half eaten,
You compliment our 21st century sofa,
Upholstered in rust less syntax,
You close my olive eyes with pictures,
Like memories in a black and white photograph,
My warless life does not prevent me from hearing your voice,
Here I will thaw in winter’s sun, and listen to your stories,
Share a violin concerto, from my polycarbonate collection,
And research your history, your friends and family from my apple mac.
Crosshatched fingers, carved from slabs of winters dirt
Scratch the hidden clearing beneath my woolen beanie.
Cannibalized perennials surround me, licked to the bone by rude city winds
This garden has procrastinated into a coffin of sticks and dry mud.
And the long drooling stare of the dumb dog fixes his snipers nose to my tuna.
To get a coffee these days is an excuse to visit 2nd hand bookstores and rescue old poets from decomposition, and surround myself with training wheels of wisdom.
Things I once owned as a kid look antique to me now I’m fifty.
The young are buying up old vinyl records, like it’s the end of the financial year
Shiny crow black discs in heavy metal jackets.
Rewind the smoky side streets and alleyways of yesterday
Now plumb straight up and clad in glass dress.
The sun makes me squint like a smoker
The same sun I wore scratching my feet on the front lawn at seven
Rolling around like a starfish on Sundays feeling like heaven.
Autumn honour’s our lambs of war
unstained as stainless.
Cursed at dawn beneath the yellow sphinx
the shores a swamp, with tempered bayonets
unpicked and severed by chunks of lead.
North beach was thick with bone
their shadows vanished fast
from right to left their bodies dropped like stone.
Dig or die they shouted, defend the shallow grave
where murdered nature tilled the soil
and fields of poppies wave.
As sick as dogs they drowned in flies
and unused trenches wallpapered black with swollen dead
a screen of stretcher bearers fill the skies.
A failed coup at Anzac cove, just lambs to the slaughter
their memories lay side by side, and will was strong and free
we leave behind the dead to sleep, those Aussie mates of mortar.
Dreams of a mountain cottage, a nostalgic painting cradled by blankets of tall pine guardians, deep in the Blue Mountains. Feathered and sleepy, it rests shimmering with loving memories.
Louvered rays of sunlight permeate its heart on lazy afternoons stretched out like weekend feet.
The wind weaves its dreamy throng, through poplar leaves, shaking boughs above their knees.
A Cobalt sky drowns unassumingly, behind the thick green forest wall.
The air wrings with life, lilac butterflies ascend their skies, spiraling like two snowflakes suspended in space.
Finches flick small sticks about, and fossick in the under growth, songbirds decant their swollen chests.
Sweet songs rise into the sky like runaway balloons.
As night drifts in, a whole new snug begins, rustling pages in the corner of the room beneath the smoky light, conducting needles made of wood, with looping wool at night.
You can hear a nocturnal orchestra, of Shakespearian frog’s bellowing in the dark.
The sloping metal roof shrugs and mellows, adjusting its vertebra at the turn of the day.
Waking owls dust their wings like sheets beneath the moonlit sky, the sky that illuminates the dreams we plan of love, and love of plans, of hideaways for artisans.