The light flickers,
And Derrida's graffiti

asks: when our eyes touch, is it night
or is it day?

Our tongues are now maple syrup
the colour of god's hair or something

I give him marks at least
for genuine attention.
the crescent curve of his back
had to swear loyalty
then up and go with the flow gyrating down
long legs spilling effortlessly

in deepest nebbia.

 
**
 

He slipped through the curtains
on a Friday night,
in techniques of surprise / and exited
To fill up the cosmopolitan

He was too shy to let me know
He grew in a bedroom the colour of prickly pear & it became
His favourite colour;

Except for the suitcase he has completely filled with unfinished words, he leaves
everything behind –
a familiar occurrence: ouch

confused now with appearances
He will draw a door closing, but to him it will just look like an unopened door.

There's no escaping physics or silicates
Beethoven, would be okay.
Buried upright in a tree.

 
**
 

you left i was lost
And I'm easy to store.

It changed our song.
Nails down a chalkboard.

When he reads me, I'm reading him,
until we meet inside the radio
Somewhere in the largeness of
the world,
in the thin place between the word and the thing.

But now, each day's another dictionary,
Domesticate words & consume
with an ironic detachment.
Guess that's why they call it – the morning
(knowing a book so used would not reply);
hallelujah doesnt come with
raisins

 
**
 

this ordinary life: cobra uncoiling is Kylie;
its jacket has been lit, man rolled back to ma

someone
from behind restores our tongues.
We apologise
for any inconvenience.

Can you remember our guest
in this empty house?
the room humid
with cooking cotton,
Its illusions are fully furnished,
since the windows filled with milk

blast of glass waste banking up
for airless weeks.

The money spider crosses a hand.
saint, witch, schizophrenic

If a picture could talk we could not understand it.
We write beneath the noise of men
a library of untranslated prose.

Look up and smile; the coffee drinks the cup

And our breaths intertwine on the world's edge
trees shaped like trees, the idea of water

Sight has its own methodology. Hearing too.
move solidly through public streets

Please recycle
old questions in new English.
the spaces between breaths.
I don't believe there's anything to say

Every day Abba Paul plaited a new basket,
charging $5 for audience development

displayed in a place where ducks
stop traffic and families picnic

Now, that's what I call art.

historian: this body of work to be studied
Or it can be something else entirely.
As the key sticks I can't write, the story

i'm lacking a train route
and just filling out the questionnaire /
in the yoga class, breathing Ardha Padmasana,
& tell me how
I'm going to breathe with no head?

label the provinces:

a bee once stung me on the nipple there
In a pink nightie and dark velvet smock
Go like this, and you'll see its little nose
and trimmed wings

I had three names picked out –
and a pyre, much more poetic
do you belong here. turn toward the asteroid belt

Who knows what stirs behind the small splinters

your head like a mixing bowl
it looks nothing like you

its a kind of fish icecream. big in
nonfood circles.

I hear the nurses calling
two more harpsichordists quarantined.
Sometimes, not enough,

There's a taste, —. –. a taste of paint.

white paint is medicine.
I didn't mean to be an artwork.

Pull out a folded handkerchief
It's always the edges that get blurry.
Barthes' kleenex box
visitors will bring food and gifts
an accent on elocution lip-reading
when the camera breaks down, smile and reshape.

In a forest of blue trees it's easy to feel lost.