she writes to forget that effort is imminent.
Husband died at war she hopes.
wine like vines through her flesh,
sitting at the kitchen table,
staring at the wall.
She writes the anthems of her inner world,
her overflowing haven
and she laughs with a modest undertone of desperation.
The despair is refreshing honesty,
the hope in what seems to be true is the blind spots of dust.
Every time she closes her eyes she watches the moving shades
in darkness,
knowing when she opens them she will be her as someone new.
she decides to take the clock down because
the monotonous tick was corrupting her thoughts
with boredom and predictability.
Soon she will have to get up for another drink.
she writes to forget that effort is imminent.
She writes,
A young man from the future, who would be old today, sits cross legged
by the forest and wine and imagines a girl too good to ruin.
She then gets up, pours herself a drink.
As she drinks she opens the window and vomits on the grass.
She pictures herself a bird feeding her children.
She looks at the world from her window and says, Maybe tomorrow.
He bought himself a set of keys belonging to a space ship.
He boarded that spaceship and after some awkward manoeuvres got that thing off the ground.
It travelled between 0km/h and 33 lightyears/h.
Lennon Berwick pushed a green button that looked safe and ended up at his birth.
His mother looked at him and said, “Don’t waste it.”
There she was almost dying for something he did not want.
But a child is a new leaf and he now realised he must do whatever is best for the well-being of the tree.
So he picked himself up out of his mothers womb as doctors and nurses stopped him from killing himself.
Ashamed and full of guilt he walked his heavy legs back to his space ship and flew to Pluto.
On this cold and lonely planet Lennon Berwick meditated within his suffering.
After 18 months he realised he had wanted his infant self to die because of the pain of living.
After 19 months he realised the pain of living came from the trauma of a man trying to kill him.
The shadow inundating itself, was himself.
He felt deep sadness for what he had done and strong bravery for what he endured.
Realising this paradox he laughed uncontrollably for three years.
He then boarded his spaceship and went home.
The young man sat in a bowing position surrounded by candles. facing an egg that sat on a red rug before him. The room was ambient and artificial light entered as his mother opened the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked the Boy.
“I am praying.”
“What are you doing with that egg?”
“The egg is my God,” said her Son.
The mother walked, picked up the egg, threw it into the wall.
“That is not a God, that is an egg,” said the Mother.
“So why did you throw an egg into the wall?” asked the Boy.
A white feather landed on a ceramic purple tree;
that is when I realised life is not linear
the individual leaf grows simultaneously with others
as they all grow from one branch,
all meets the soil,
the life in the dirt is still life,
and the demands of all depend on position.
we are all one,
all valid,
all playing the role in this tree of life.
sixteen cockatoos flew from my backyard
to somewhere together as the rain
fell directly down onto their wings;
I could hear the raw of the wind they used
and my parrot to my right is eating bird seed
and only likes the pumpkin seed;
he likes them so much I watch him overcome
his fear of me
Five cockatoos are back
and if they weren’t so common
you would find them
majestic
those schoolyard bullies
are also constantly terrified
we should thank our brains
for
we have the ability to endure this,
the moments to relax,
the days full of rain where
you have no other option
than to drink coffee,
red wine,
and watch a parrot stare you
in the eyes and crunch a
pumpkin seed
knowing it could be his
last
Drawing
women
from
my
mind
Painting
the
faces
of
my
soul.
After sleeping with her I felt like James Bond, an assassin so good he has a licence to do it. But I was just a chubby Australian with a keen tongue to talk and give pleasure. The fantasy was fulfilled due to her beauty, the way her eyes squinted when she laughed, and the way she laughed with sincerity. A sulky French woman who has a sceptic eye for authenticity would also suffice in this fantasy but I have never found a French woman to find me desirable. So here I lay with a woman, if defined by nationality, would be insulted, and rightly so. She was everything as well as her birth place, she was femininity at its peak, the flower surrendering to the bee with a sting for the greater good of colour, the melting of frost on a blade of grass as the sun peaks over the terrain. I myself, was fifty nine thousand dollars in debt to a gang who cut peoples head off for five dollars. But that is finance you see, owe a little you will die, owe a lot, you will be granted hope. I had hope, or none; hope is the cornerstone for belief but with faith there is nothing left to believe in. Did I have faith? I have something, just ask this woman.
“I will be dead within the week if I don’t find a way to make seventy thousand,” I told her.
“You had a good run,” she replied.
There it dawned on me the gift death had offered my life. A promise. A triumph.
So I made love with that woman and then I walked alone with my shoulders pinned back along the shore of a relentless tide. The moon tried to save me with her water but only a helmet could. But I didn’t need saving, all I ever wanted was to die in peace. The last thing to go through my mind was a pleasant thought, ‘Yeah, it is all meaningless, but it is nice.’
