In ancestor times hills cried creeks,

pines jammed into species, pierced cielo.

The two cities spoke in season colour,

colour behind eyelid colour, ebony bay

scratched with lights.
Despite their buildings’ calcified retinas,

despite the torrents del concreto buckling with refuse,

today the sea spins the same line:

suck my fat sun, gobbling down celestial.
Either one could’ve fallen into treble; one

did. Today,

who packs one

thousand minutes into a beat?
Metal nerves scuff rooftops, singing

if I was

	     your

	              girl

		            friend funk / twitch, church

bells.

Matter’s 
either-or potential steams

				        	           through nebulous concave…

				        	           through capital dreams…

	     of birds on her coat munching

	     digital food / malling. 
				                  Scraping up

dead mutt in early morning mist,

streets cleaned with tourist. I’m

running late for coffee.
Whose nervous doorbells are chanting?
Whose skeletal pines are fishing

from holes in Patagonia?
Either one of us could have fallen into treble:

the world’s a calloused doorbell / oyster. Discarded pop

becomes us. You wouldn’t even think.
Entre el paisaje y el atardecer: ocean.

Between the Pacific and el paisaje: pensamiento.
Spumes of our forest, dribbles of dirty Sydney creek:

	     1) the Earth shudders in a dry, cauterised light

	     2) a small painting acquires carbon chains, vomits

	          fiery rosa into a dappled

	          blue-hued cloud of sperm.
The sea keeps dancing on the beach.

In ancestor times gleaming 
nails went mollusc

and dashed hot paints

from the frames of their concrete chrysalises.
When the lights came on, some necks had necklaces.
	     	     	     	                      A poem of balconies; let your golden locks tumble

	     	     	     	                      into our steaming bass.