'theres a riot going on: quick throw away
your ciggies, & leave your house, in the wrong place;
breathe & drink water &-if necessary-the milk,
lie on a sunny riverbank. though you
may seem useless ignoring the rubbish
floating by youre working away; at your next big thought
& the approach youll use with a boy,
without headphones: ghosts, jesus said
will be with us always technology
doesnt change-that, if you could retract that look-'
you stand still on flinders lane
remembering a man from somewhere, who burnt himself,
to make it familiar; its the opposite,
tack but you dont know his pressures,
borders hes slipped through, of reality of personality,
anything he does is shocking-
he holds his heart like its a handle,
he doesnt-make, anything, still theres
a trace of his sweat in your
food clothes, run, you were born
where they didnt need a black market.
youre a student-of your own weakness
history & you act, as if well, contents irrelevant, newness-
your only criteria but incompatible with so
much you want to save eh; each little influence
& wisdom, only solves biggies, so many smallies,
in the realm of problems, each time you
must decide what different, thing you-
are going to do with the dead soldiers,
though you want to resist, without fighting
(his head on the steeringwheel like its a pillow)
look to your friends &-unfortunately their
cultures much the same as your own
so you stop, climb a hawthorn
& (neglecting to look at the braches-leaves view)
pick berries for the dying….
that wont save them & wont save you
dont kill a priest because a book said
to yet where does instruction come from these days:
'in history everyones brought back to life again';
so history expands in your mind releasing some of
the guilt you stir with your knife & life;
maybe becoming what you fear is an answer-
i mean if you fear your parents-
their mistakes are of a different-kind too:
though liable as anyone to be checked. by the
words of a guru its harder if people disappear
they come back dead of course or dont,
the less they leave the more motivation.
for example they go down to the river,
to escape their husbands-bark, bark, he kills his dog;
you take the child & make a new life
it seems impossible to do what you did before
except-error, error-& you realise that
yous not you: 'but someone else altogether.'

inside a brown name along an objective spine
the self of a deer holds like data
like a sheaf of sugarcane-as if? still being put together by science.
thats you looking in, seeing yourself, then trying to brush yourself
away out like a fly fire. comparisons are oiliest
near the barbecue but no apron will help
now, in the virtual forest where meat is half of
greet: 'theyre like humans but outside language…'

somehow they got, in that position, the postsingular or thresh & grain.
alleluia at least he hoped so?
when we shook-hands we made the most-of it.
we went to the market, we met a gypsy on the way,
she said we were married. its possible possibly
yet at times my mind quakes like its under unknown water,
foot by foot, it removes itself from itself, & killed, by hunter,
& still standing, leafy twig in its teeth.
if you finally say something dont bother.

there are gold coins, like spoors all over the forest floor
music hands stiffen at thoughts of fur.
the deer is swimming it is dilated
with blood & thought, perhaps best left to reality?
which isnt starting, not anytime soon anyway, the restlessness of being peaks
in the wind. the box the unimprisoning box:
the fawns are in it, the stags, & the does
milk sloshing in a bucket. the body costume, not character.
all your fire reports on knowledge reduced to a smell.

there are two ways of going
at it call one attentive. paradoxically its the one immersed in emotion.
words fall into your head like green fruit, like gull feathers,
& its true without you knowing it
who could pretend to hang out in
that hot slimy place, a belly. we became lightning, cold
lightning; i saw smoke move from branch to branch had i seen a ghost?
ears, come into play. a memory of easels set up,
& wildlife documentaries with celebrities & military logic.

dad says come on be seasonable
what do any of us get by staying still?
footrot & frostbite thats if were lucky? but we werent
to hear, a song that started eons ago. a silent song a
drawing of a song, a surveying & surveillance &
a-con your smile, has evaporated in the mist:

'so do what you want but know
what you are doing, my home
my garden i know its fantasy
i try to kick a little
real rock into it when i can
sometimes though, its all mind.
its spooky waking up, finding its as
you left it like a protected exhibit.
we never see our own tape, or our blackout
the acclimatised birds are stirring.'

they, at nest, work it out.