spacepoetguy

As a pendulum I am always the ideal of a past self of mine and any way I wish to be eventuates itself in six months as if a tree when watered with sufficient periodic thought

I will throw myself into the flame of intention and reality and be devoured by my unmet wants and I will not spend another moment in the cold of indifferent indecision

I have seen the eyes of choice and the impossible breadth of possibility and I have found their smooth homogeneity undeserving of my matching gaze

I will leave to drown my youngest born to chance a life for his senior, I will impart onto myself tragedy as the burden cost of fervency, I will for love watch myself turn cruel and wither with the garden

You will not find me at a crossroads or behind a wooden lattice in avowal, nor in waking sleep or as slave to thoughtless pursuit

You will find me white-knuckled in the chase in horses’ tow upon the hillside

In a little dusty town

where a flag follows the sun to rise and fall with days or is propelled so by invisible hands never fading in frailty

by the shoreline thick with spray

where on a tired shoulder can be found a beach umbrella absconding on release to come crashing in sand only steps away

under cairns piled by the hikers

where a stone relentlessly tumbles from its mount to rest in earthy mildew more eerie than its barrow in its ploy to be returned

behind the baker’s tin-roofed shop

where a rolling mill turns with bludgeoning blinded force beyond any reasoned malice to the kernels beneath

near the car dealership

where its flailing mascot clutches at wisps of woodsmoke praying to something unseen not to be abandoned like this anymore

by the old man’s cottage

where clockwork clicks in tune with weak and waning knees like springs losing steam with every morning

by the brushes on the coasts’s brow

where the dunes wear down to meet the beachside casting off the clutching craven weeds

in a little dusty town

When you turn the corner each star in the sky is a set of headlights.

Vision blurred and doubling, sharpness becomes fuzzy and the vague is clear as light

Engine roaring, something living, pulsing, waiting on your call

In a place that is not a place but an angle

Somewhere ninety strange degrees away.

All the beauty out beyond the cage is turned inside out

And found reflected in two pupils with a headlight each

Turning through a circle

Once and soon in walking distance

Up and down will come tomorrow

Ninety strange degrees around the corner.

When you turn the corner gentleness is anger

An inferno is your birth a million miles of murky sky away

The fires soon to meet you when you go from whence you came

In a soothing rage of seething sighing turbulence, still death-defying

Eaten by your father in the sea that stretches out and on

You are turning, turning into someone

Turning from the path before you

Turning wheels and screeching tires

Turning string from silk and fire

Ninety strange degrees around the sun.

And emptiness, not evil brings your bleeding

It is never mean

Cruelty spawning never in expanses

But inside perception’s strange reflection

Death hotel’s front room reception

Blinking back through letter slits

With large black eyes, or maybe white as headlights

Ninety strange degrees along the hallway.

And in soon days

You will watch its fiery feast in awe through telescopes and photo albums

Staring at you

any set of fingers could have held you like glue pressed wherever needed to swallow the gaps fastened like tethers suspending your tangle of red

as a cradle on fiery beams yet to fall you are rocked without moving and loud without breath and there is a new face in the locket you left on your neck

with your red lines pulled tightly you rise from your feet in a pulsing thrummed flight that falters in waves, cold like an oil burn that shocks your nerves numb

and there is red now in the drawers under your desk spilling out into red on the carpet in the lamplight and it is red that we are wrapped in burning into us red in complexion and redder than rock sand and we are red now

compulsion by a pull, the sallow fingers drawn

skin taut and eyes flickering as bulbs

to breaking as the grasp on day is caught

on a trigger to the hamster bottle soaked in brimming bloodshot ease

ravenous in the way it holds the straw

as if a hand from oil from boredom it flew to only fall from pan to burner

reaching down to heave on feet to leave the floor

it is clawed upon itself and has grown accustomed

forgot to swim, the ones that slid onto the shores

on woods afloat on murky home of once before

playing sailors as the surface stepper’s game aglow above

to the shoulder in the fray with shirts un-soaked and meeting gaze

is a dweller in the coral mazes winding in the bay beneath a creaking travelled keel

reaches it not to scrape on coloured fingers

holding eyes in locked abandon deepest wonders cast envies in a crossfire

one to move and one to burrow

to one the kingdom, the other home

as a bird from a tree flies up the sail to soar on forward

the couple’s covet, not a trouble to be won or answer found

a different warmth for each to take without a thought

til’ light will melt all wings and depth will crush its prey

aching seagull’s back sun-bleached hides from water like the hung’ring eel is hidden from the sky

breaking lines and casting free, crowed admiration, yet

Here is one that isn’t much

Waking and walking

Green to orange and a look

Not a glance or a gaze

This is one that knows it will never be bold

Shoes alike are drumming on bricks

Branches never dreamed to touch the sun

Pleading cupped hands want light

There is one like any other

Pressing into concrete

Growing on a traffic island

there was a metro line once with tracks built faster than the train ran and a carriage full of people talking

people sitting and standing and clutching the handles and in the baggage compartment and spilling from the windows like a flutter of ticket stubs

a clutter of eyes sliding up and down the route map until they could not see so far

children leaping across junctions and clinging to the rooftop

suitcases on the glassiest wheels rolling up and down in waves

breezes and sparks and newspaper planes and deepest roots of rock

an early morning train commuters caught, their sleeves and sights

matted and dead as the dressings underneath it

on blocky cuts of jarrah flesh

is woven spinifex that used to drift

such a reddening carpet dirt-caked

thick as fur

bristling with its faded wearing word

embraces its guest tightly

as if it might sink through

warmly in the stinking heat

alt text: v

you could give yourself away to the bricks

laid in line in rows in houses

give them what they ask of you

slamming on your door like wailing fists

blunt force pressure pushing

walls pressing downward with you their foundation

this home will crush you someday

you could give yourself to the wattle trees

feet sunk in detritus dissolving

dry and wet and warm and strange

bright and clear in a world that never asked for you

you could make yourself and it your own

and let the bottlebrushes lash at you

because shelter breaks the wind you want to breathe

take aim and

flutter down

and slip between the branches’ barren fingers

helicopter seed

fall twirling

hello sir

right away sir

you can order on the touchscreens

next please

paper wrapper

yes ma’am I have your thick shake here

beep

hello two in the morning

ding dong

beep

sir I can’t hear you

sir put the bottle down

sir is it ketchup on your hoodie?

tell me

did another person spill it with your hands?

hello sir right away sir

I’d like a cheeseburger and answers

beep

who did this to your life, sir?

also PSA, I want to try writing for other people!

if you send me a story about you or someone you know through the submission button on my blog, I'll write you a poem (if you want it to be private then I won't even post it here, I'll just send it to you)

anyway this is one of my favourites

Little Dipper

winter is the sight of her by the lake in vivid darkness and the taste on skin of inky air that holds her as she glides her way to swim

it’s the way she climbs the crags that breaks the dullness of the twilight and in rushes like the reeds leaves colour burned into the ripples

in a rusty shade of orange like a second setting sun

and she breathes

and summer linen slides from shoulders to the rocks flutters free before she slips through bars of moon

but for a moment I can see the silhouette the diver cast in the river soaked with stars that rose to meet her

and for a wrenching little second she stays under by the creekbed

as my river siren holds

her fiery breath

and captures mine

until the surface and the silence break with bloodshot eyes, and laughter

and she’s standing on the rocks dressed in a grin

so bewitch me little dipper like an artist or an angler cast your shadows on the shallows

draw your line in

look down

behold the kid

below the dirt

hear one more clicker’s press

another casket laid

they’d like to say some words

and when he wakes again it’s dark

in someplace he has never been

where gone are all his hungry teeth

that cut him from his itching bones

I hope he finds the peace he needed there

if life alive had failed to give him rest

but still for years his veiled picture hangs

and two days late his father found the tears

so I will make it warm, when he comes home.