this is a usual afternoon. in the shadows.
drinking wine. someone has been to the clairvoyant.
i no longer wish to fix my future.
you have come on a borrowed bicycle.
you have sewn patches on your elbows.

we turn to talking romance. this is a usual afternoon.
  i reveal my passion for singers.
i have scratches on my heart. dust on my heels.

piano boy. coming down the hallway.
   see your new striped denims.
see your mothers fair isle vest.
   see you suck tequila.
see you mexico your accordion.
piano boy. rolling off to europe.

this is the longest telegram i will never send.
   we are both waiting for the angels.

From Correspondences

i listen to you interviewed on the radio. circular
language becoming meaningless. complexities. descriptions.
you say the eskimoes have four hundred words for ‘snow’.
eye contact. movies. hands touch. fingers scratching at
scabs. infecting each other. yoko ono dreaming on the
vinyl. and while we are talking about talking, have you
heard the latest news about everyone you know, will ever
hope to meet, have known. introduce me to a clue. tell me
all about yourself yourselves. and them. tell them about
them. come on now. tell me all about all of them. film
directors. cowboys. gypsies. punks. thieves. lovers.
enemies. bestfriends. mystics. academics. lovers. lovers.
dance my ears to new directions.

all i really wanted to say to you. just once i wanted to
say it to you. take a deep breath and just say it to you.
STOPTALKING PLEASE STOPTALKING.

a child looks out from behind the blind at the moon on the
sea. i look down on a page watch my lonely hand scraping
out letters. i am wondering. what can i do with your
descriptions of me. i do they change me. do they change me
for you. what do they do for me.

From Correspondences

phone me in care of the blues.

all this talk of how it could be.
sometimes my cunt is throbbing
like a bass guitar.

you get the people worried for you.
you slip their hearts a song.

then you take them in.
it is your skin which takes them in.
they cling to you like wet cotton clings.

you phone me from six hundred miles.
oh you mean to say you’re lonely now.

sure.    i’ll wait at the tarmac.
sure.    i’ll lunch with you.
sure.    i’ve made this handgrenade sandwich

(Source: poetrylibrary.edu.au)

the longer i write poems for you
the shorter they become.

(Source: poetrylibrary.edu.au)

i once felt a little foolish with my eyes wide open
obviously searching the western deserts.  looking for you.

so i followed the pull of the moon. drove to the coast.
   looking for you.

they had constantly measured the size of your psychic
blemishes. they told me you had shattered your own glass
heart. there was a vacancy. it was as if we had never
touched. you had jumped from the seventh floor window.

they held a photographic exhibition for your death.
jude and i played your old favourites. drank overproof
all the night long.   in the morning
i drove further along the coast.

   all roads lead to album cover landscapes.

From Correspondences

so now i have to pack my forests
   and baggages.
so now i have to pack my eagles
   and teardust.
and the way you talked to overflow.
and the way you were so fast to change
   into your many shades of sorrow.
and the way you swept the miracles
   away from your shabby gentility.
and the way you trembled
   as you chose the latest props.

so hello attache case face.
hello briefcase face.
hello screaming suitcase.

(Source: poetrylibrary.edu.au)

at first, you came with tears and coloured stones.
we offered each other real life. three dimensional
loving. my tongue gently sucking your sweetness.
your hands turning my skin.

tonight the sun sets bloodblue across the sky, matching
my memory of the bruises. all those sunsets. symbolic
distractions from the blades we used to wield in
frenzied passion. i would plead and loathe myself for
pleading. there was something incomplete.

you were desperately concerned with the makings of
yourself. you continued the search. the guitarist.
the actress, the travellers were there. closing in on
summer. gunboats in the corner. you specialised your
knowledge. you concentrated on mirrors. you had to
tell them how they mirrored each other.

reluctantly, i began to pile the rubble. black rocks
in my mouth. you took yourself to icy skies. and
came back to tell me it was no longer PRACTICAL to be
with me. i PRACTICALLY exploded.

storm breaks.   memory shakes.
i have no need of practicality.
i dare to swim in my own hot blood.

From Correspondences

once, trailing my lips around your neck, i thought i
would fashion a rhinestone studded noose. i swallowed
spansules containing clocks, coins and automobile
rhythms. absorbed in my motivations to pin your effigy
with cold steel needles.

i never believed you. i shot you up with the residue
and you took me riding. the corner came too fast for
you. the bike spun out. the scar on my hand took the
shape of a continent where i longed to travel. away
from you. myself. the common fantasy you insisted we
share.

i heard you went south. passed right through my city
on your way.   ‘an ambulance can only go so fast.’

From Correspondences

I cannot say goodbye. really, i should be able to.
really i am still a stranger to you. and i should
be able to say goodbye. the way a stranger would.

i can always see them coming. giant boulders
thundering across your room towards me. every time
i open my mouth. an avalanche. every time
i turn towards or away from you.

i cannot say goodbye. so i stay
you speak less and less of loving.
i am simply speechless. all talked out.
i try tossing dice. throwing coins.
i carve into the lines on my palm
in an attempt to alter the future.

From Correspondences