Laurence Dunn - Poetry

I see people plucking at the pavement like angry pigeons for half-smoked cigarettes with nothing but tattered pullovers to keep them warm, with nothing but concrete for a mattress; one hand held out like a half-prayer catching rain, shrapnel, spit and I watch them from the bench outside the church. A place of avaricious congregations, as I peck at a meal-deal sandwich and enjoy a bottle of Coca-Cola without you.

shanti. shanti. shanti.

but nothing makes it feel ok; I wonder if progress is the distance we’ve run from sanity, I write frantic poems on the back of receipts on the back of my hands the inside of my eyelids - with pens, I’ve stolen from local pubs.

shanti. shanti. shanti.

You wish me peace. at what price? All my human feeling. I sit down next to a huddled Mass. And offer a large pinch of baccy, filters, skins.

Her name is Sky and we watch the stars as displaced people with alarm-clock hearts roam from bar to bar to bar.

Morning

delirium,

half-smoked veranda —

   pepper tongue

    salt-eye

     scramble, pencil, pencil,

    drawn you / floppy head / spaghetti arms / black-whole body,

       before

half five?

   birds

 mock

children songs.

difference leaks —

      you & me,

        her

          on (I)

(I)

  on her …

work ethic

     seeping through the ceiling.

I can’t finish

     myself.

sketch

   scribble

    sketch

       calling—

cockerel

     skrill

poppy sun

      coughing up

       bloodgum —

paradise?

  slit in the

    screaming sky

search

   under

    the

     skin

      (that won’t close)

drain

   me

    down

     the

      plug.

they (don’t) like me

they tell me (I am smart)

they tell me (I am worthless)

they tell me (I am art)

they tell me (I am interesting)

the Centre of my universe

we(‘)re flecks of terror

dust.

goodnight my love

you could never,

   a penny in the sky

I slot inside

    a fruit machine —

watching

    ballerina flies

tracing fingers

    around smoke damage —

     like a wilting poppy —

       the last time,

I

 tried

   to burn

      the flat

        down.

you ask me why

    I piss my life

     up against

      the wall —

        tumbling,

     watching

  reflections

    of

   a

strangers’

    face

     as the washing machine spins.

you tell me

   I’m worried

     I’ll find you

      blue-skinned

          in the

          bathroom.

and I kept going —

   until my nose was

    a bloody bouquet

      picked off Mardi Gras.

she wrote poems about me,

  like I was special.

“I wade knee-deep into you”

  (you should have brought

   a life-jacket).

she asked

  why I never do the same.

because

  I was already dying

    over

The place that I dream rots slowly

I learnt in that room

loving people is the most dangerous thing.

staring at your mirror —

how long left?

do they remember me?

am I,

am I,

am I,

can I feel the earth shift?

they move on.

they have kids.

they move on,

and build lives.

loving people.

picking at you

like cold, stale chips,

flat cola & hand -

me -

down

romance.

(don’t play with your food,

or you don’t get seconds.)

stomach leaking life,

a burst water balloon,

grenade heart,

hungry.

gaping.

hole.

the earth moves

slow —

I watch the second-hand

and pray one day it grips mine

like yours did.

and one by one

they each become

good memories

that haunt us.

and, I know my name is on your lips

in the dead of night

(otherwise why pick a fight?)

and know your name is on my lips

as the sun rises

(I want to fight)

but that

is not

enough.

loving people?

we settle

for something,

not quite

the real thing

and force a smile.

the dreams you keep quiet

rot slowly

Heavy, thick

ringlets of smog

hug the spoon of the sky

like blankets of ketamine.

we get snug

and warm on the sofa

sip cold cups of tea;

memories of light

as the beat grows heavy,

you turn to me

with black-hole eyes.

I’ve never met someone

quite like you, she says,

I think maybe we were cut

from the same Blakeian

blue-light.

the beat grows louder, heavier still,

as we bicycle naked

from one topic to the next.

she’s beautiful,

but beautiful women

always liked me.

they want to hear me

sing in the shower

or obsess over syllables.

do you feel

the same way

about me too?

a new room.

the wall paper is blotched

with cigarette smoke

and littered in lonely blue roses.

a topless man,

jaw possessed by Beelzebub

dunks his head

into a tank of piranhas,

the

boys

go

wild.

red lights

flood the house

(I wonder why we’re all so high

if we’re happy?)

but thoughts like that

are for afters

and post disasters.

I search the stratosphere for her.

she’s covered in paint,

tattered clothes,

a sullen face I’ve never seen before.

you should

come home

with me.

the pigs are here

the party is over.

you should

come home

with me.

her face stretched like pastry,

purple shadows under green eyes —

moments like this I know

I’ll miss her

until I’m an old, bitter man.

she urged me to join her,

to shoot the video.

instead I did my own shooting

in a small room

with a new best friend,

wondering —

where

are

you?

(do

you

feel

the

same

way

about

me

too?)

she said:

I’m staying

for afters

look after

yourself.

I would have whisked her

into a suitcase,

travelled to Tangiers

if I could.

every light in my body

flashed like copper sirens,

transfixed to a mast of poetry

I let fly into the sky.

I hung on her every word.

a free climber

with a death wish.

but that

was the cost

of loving you —

(do

you

feel

the

same

way

about

me

too?)

Postscript

the next day

after holding

the stranger’s breath

till the sun rose

(Sometimes we need something

warm in our beds to stop us

growing cold).

I get a message.

she’s in the hospital.

he’d been messing

around with other women.

you should have let me

break your heart.

but you knew

that

was the cost

of love me.

and the heartbeat

grows weak

I hold you

like a cigarette

hugging the blue lips

of a junkie.

even when it sticks

in my throat,

chasing lazy smoke-rings

through pink June air —

and wonder if you

were made lazy on God’s Sunday.

I watch

as the heliotropes

kiss the hem of her dress,

and bury

a sigh.

there’s a place

between here & there —

the 61st second,

the fifth season —

where romantics

who don’t believe in love

find reason.

and I watch

as it unwinds above her head

and dissipates, pulling apart

at every seam,

melting seamless we’re

into everything

that is.

The town is painted in a lazy summer wash,

and I walk through the shadow of myself.

I remember when life opened her legs

and showed me all she had to give —

I drank heavy from the fountain,

threw up lucky pennies —

the ones tourists had tossed

on their honeymoon.

Each morning,

as the sun threw its golden quilt

across the dew-covered grass,

I’d sit and watch droplets evaporate.

We’d splay ourselves across the dirt

and feel the cold-warmth

of mornings fleeting.

We’d make sun-angels.

I’d swallow as much light as I could

and wonder what it’d be like —

to touch every part of you,

to warm every dimple,

to smile as you smile.

You had such a beautiful smile.

But I know the deal

of falling in love with sun-angels —

we don't speak on the bus anymore.

the children kick carling cans down the street.

punters clutch lottery tickets like they've won something.

last week, a man climbed the giro building and threatened suicide.

the beaches are awash with crisp packets, the bars half-empty, people watching their feet; the only colour, the only life, blips from a fruit-machine. skint.

i'm down to my last biro.

she can’t afford to feed her kid but made us both a picnic; no one asked for help — it was too soon to offer.

it was too soon for naming silence. I sink into poverty's mute dialect.

I’m writing a play. I’ve been lucky enough to get feedback on my script, from a well-known Australian playwright and actor. I’m hoping to get it into a local fringe festival, but there is still a lot to do & I burnt myself out over the past couple of months. Some of it is very hard to write.

days measured in pints. bitter in the backyard blues breath indistinguishable, sullen in smoke notes flitting through past half-moon smiles, wearing running shoes. depth fortified in, the carbonated swill swallow gulp and leave, alone, left by the heater. it is off.