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
who packs one
thousand minutes into a beat?
Metal nerves scuff rooftops, singing
if I was
friend funk / twitch, church
either-or potential steams
through nebulous concave…
through capital dreams…
of birds on her coat munching
digital food / malling.
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.
1 December 2013