Sunday, 25 September 2011

The Crow

One undertaking the beach

In common air

I walk and you fly

Searching the shore

Shred of flesh in your beak

Some idea in my head

Thrown out to sea

On a stone.


Monday, 12 September 2011

The First Bus

Sixteen years old and on my way to study for sophistication out on the coast. I boarded the bus at the station. Tired already, my alarm was set for dark o'clock, eyelids heavy with mascara and shadow, protected by a veil of patchouli oil, as the top deck squelched full of fry-up vapour jackets, wet dog denim, and ashtray perms. I figured the study for sophistication would have some rough to smooth, and travelled cavalier in my quest for visual delight when psychiatric nursing was the destiny of most art students. We drove east with bar room volume until one morning I heard silence coming, the fizz, whine, and creak of voices drowning. He was climbing the stairs. Silence from the lower deck audible. Mighty men, fear in their glance, clenched jaws, lacquered women swallowed their breath, everyone found their fingernails interesting. My admiration was thunderous, and by the end of the journey I'd made an idol of a man who could bring peace to the number eleven with a frock coat and hairstyle.


The Last Train

I'm in a carriage with the kids, on the last train back from the coast. One boy holds a skateboard, his shield of defence. He's on the defensive when the street style kids ask, 'what you doin' on this train?' 'Gotta get home, haven't I.' And he's out at the next station, looking over his back wheel as soon as the doors were shut. The kids, after a day on the arcade stock exchange, are flicking their lighters, and one has singed his hair. I hope this carriage doesn't have a smoke alarm. I really don't want any delays so I miss my connection. In the glass partition I see them shoulder walk, anonymous, caps-on, hoods-up, inflated, and armed with massive bags of pink candy floss. I perfect the art of invisibility………….. as if I needed to.


Sun Flutes

Sun flutes in a city bed where I let you grow. Like family our communion has no words, and like lovers you are the first I see when I open the day, and the last as I close at night. If I am awake to hear the rage and see you battle a storm, I reach to pluck and save you, but I stop my hand before I snap a stem. While you are alive you'll always be young. There is no malice between you and some rain when tomorrow there may be sun.