You’ve Got To Admit / Fractions / Evidence /
Shiver Without Fail / Free Hand: A Kind of Thinking
You’ve Got To Admit
The past isn’t even the past
and every sound there is
fumes on the fence with ivy
pigeons and rodents.
There’s always a horn
among parades, among tears
even alone on a seat
waiting for the last plane out of Australia.
Yes, there are always hills
where you knew someone.
There will be times
but none like this.
The numbers add themselves
to your skin which leaks
its sweat and tablets.
Everything smooths itself out
in a cup — cheers! — without success.
Five hundred dollars, a gold watch
It’s getting better.
If you were more open
would it make a difference?
You don’t have to look.
You can walk away.
There are stairs.
It’s not really your place
to eat cake.
It’s more of an excuse.
You could be tempted to fold.
You do nothing of the sort.
The walkways are fractions.
There are too many barriers.
There’s no point in stealing crumbs.
There are no crumbs.
If there was evidence
it’s gone this morning.
Everyone’s hanging on.
You smell something on wet clothes.
It’s not unhappiness
you know what that is.
The past is something a prisoner
might want to forget, or maybe
it uncovers, but what?
You can’t do that, with words, put it right.
That’s the point about lying
it’s what humans do.
Shiver Without Fail
Green and white slats, alternates, as
air shivers heat with expectancy
Broadcasts fail to excite
but the air is always there, waiting
Broadcasts fail to fail too
green air shines at the heated slat
Here and there shivers
more than yesterday, more than expected
To fail, without fail
green shines and, waiting, shivers
Free Hand: A Kind of Thinking
There are ways of walking morning, afternoon, night,
my interest not in apparatus, the machine of normal air.
Attention’s elsewhere, thickets and scrub, ‘my dissatisfactions…
irritants in language’, rush leaves, rain from the bay.
And words that sound like words, and places
Some days I’d rather have talked simply of sound
and sight of land. Some days there’s a cracking pace
of construction at the highway level, faux cinders as well,
levels of unease, verandahs decomposing, life at your feet
scrounged, a bus skiving off-route, too much
Or lines here, on footpaths, rise and fall, old bridges not full
of sentiments but intimate voids, arrows and signs, ‘no endings
–- but one’, river glitter, pressure. What sounds clear is hidden
under branches, (small and quick), working light,
a bright format, also takes place in my hand, free and warm
‘neither do I want to contrive…’.
I follow lines on my palm, diverging, while metal talks
on the street, practical curves carry sound, bodies go
‘yoo hoo’. Well might you plead for transcendence, it looks
like a butterfly tattoo, sounds like late night punching air, how
we stand back. ‘I and you as continuations’, death spatials
‘turn towards phenomena’, an erotics of links
If nothing completes, there are shadows where there are
bodies, which can be known, the very nerves connect
as travel, into green rings round the city, shine
almost unworldly, specks of air flicker in someone’s eyes,
‘am exile within’. What science! Among impotent cars
and flagfalls, in other words, why do you love
the sun in winter?
Today’s light doesn’t lift clouds, explanation is a complex
not unlike this traffic, though showing more prowess,
‘work is not grey’. You can see your mineral life, a water jewel.
A spider in the flyscreen, attempts your own depth in air.
The spider died, and what else. The pencil fades.
Despite intersects of cold, it’s all moving, historical looping.
And what is a place of thinking, rough drawing,
‘beyond content and technique is…