mirrors.

the corvid rises from the yellow moon,wept to a body of death, dismissal of its heartbeat to the atramental starsof unbidden dance; I know how this goes,I’ve been here before,slipping out of one’s own skin; it was memoirs hung by wings,by the man’s madness; dither nowor die in memory. The moon shall forever watchas reprieved… Read More mirrors.

à minuit

the boney moon, dragged by hibiscus over the red hills.Your moth wings baby-rattling the drowning of the stars, the symmetry of our skeletons for asylum; the moon, she finds my darkness by the Katsura leaves. The atramental vagary of her lays in my hands. psithurism, algedonic to the death strokes when she flutters, how she… Read More à minuit

In mind.

catalpa, heart-shaped and boneyyour daddy died years ago,in redress of his mind, where I leavemy fingers on the stone,and I’ll never see him, he is just a rockhe is just a worm;you’ve been in my mindbut never knew me,I tire; deathis half the stradivarius of the birdsand their strings of gutthan it is mystifying orinboundto… Read More In mind.

to grief.

bare-bones / wed to abandoning in-uterofingers; the apple burstslike an appendix / and the seabreast to breast / is a mistressto the Kalahari sun/ mouthing /to my moon“death goes to the worms” / alien touch / my love has gone /threnody and dream, as if the Earth is glass /stranded / to the ghosts /of… Read More to grief.

“Inspire me Coffee, Please?” by Don Matthews.

I’m sitting in my cafeWanting some inspireStaring at me coffeeWaiting brain to fire Hello? I feel ignition?Neurons taking offTelling me to write aboutMy cappuccino froth What a load of twaddle… Sorry readers… I am an Australian writer. In ‘Flippant, Comic, and Serious’, I focus on humour, offbeat poetry, and exploring things different.

Let it die.

Turn away from the resuscitations there the dream warrants the saplings, she in the lithology of life, the posies leach in mother’s touch, stands retracted in the tears from the ocean, weeping in the enchant as I feel the shame of the eventide; the last breath to the inhabited throes of the shore if swallowed… Read More Let it die.

our ghosts.

our ghosts accompany loneliness… mirrors of distant memory      find to the dusk like at sea      a memento in a dream      that eludes me and floats…      Orange blossoms into Ophelia’s violets and the granitic rocks      rush to the red dust for how quietly time has passed  through the statuary of rock… Read More our ghosts.

Modernities.

isolate the modernities  carnations touch the wind, mocking them, like a cigarette in the abandoned sunlight, the entropy, monstering god-like shores fragmenting ends of the mind, traversing the watery rock for the sea, the mouth left behind from the cave, teeming with blood; the mountain defines the reflection in your eyes, where have you been?… Read More Modernities.

bloom.

Desert, her eyes are morsels to the jasmine and roses once grown from her wrists, between the flowers in each white finger, whilst the moon falls, leaves barefoot in winter,     deserved for posturing an abyss  this dance, like an atramentous sea; woman to the ebb and flow  of flower bedded lips to firstborn… Read More bloom.

always.

paraphernaliaflowers; the frozen nailsof Mars, lest I leavein lunula wombsto no death of our wormsand our licking wings;I’ve dreamt no morethan the coquette black rose,and her absinthe skin,wormwood, dead at our feet,to the insomniacocktails of phantasm,setting down the metaphysical poetrythrough my blood-flow, and the paraphernaliaof rocks, incubated with the skull-shapedhills; is it thenso ancient?the last… Read More always.

This night.

summer, pilgrimage of the ewe; the blood sun breaks upon death— is the symmetry of the flower where an ocean throws the moon’s noose, leaving to the knot of a darker azure? dream, and you might too leave in the white rose of lips; sewn a monolith  exchanging, in perfidy, a child at the river… Read More This night.