'Veritas'


I knocked on her door, left orangeblossoms
on the varnished floor. I could see my reflection,
all flustered-eyed and mussed-up bed hair.

But that's irrelevant, a petri-dish of unreturned calls:
somnambulance. So, wish for ocean and spirals in your sleep;
that's where I've always been. It's my stream of condolences
given form: winged bravado, machismo flatly run over.

Why do birds sing when I'm continuously quiet? To blast them
out of my sight: I'm sorely tempted some days. Some days.
Of maroon and burgundy, of plastic wheels on a Tonka truck,
squeaky-rusted from the sandpit it's always resided in.

This youthful lozenge I spat out years ago.
This toast I buttered and threw
on that same floor.

I wish for hollandaise and bechamel sauce. No mint. A touch
of tarragon and music from Vienna, pure and forlorn. Somehow,
these wishes become three kisses I've yearned for.
Eternally.

Windswept caves with anemones at its gates. Flax
and Pohutukawa lining the edges. That was Christmas
all those months ago.

There, I spoke of roots and waves returning, of sunsets
rainbow-runed and benevolently stained. Here, it's rain
and endless rain, polished stones in a crystal bowl, shivering.
Today is a muted aria cut short, left reeling.

What fish in this world could overcome my temptation to join
sea and sky together, to obliterate the lines of earth between?
What world of lips is worth all of this?
                
'susanna, may 17'


susanna, she's always been a sleepy type; been one of those
daisy-chain chainers, in love with a tenth of the world, and all
that it could possibly mean.

she says it's nothing to do with god or man or tree, or even spirits,
that it's all about how far it takes to go on that journey: between two
animate things, between cell and molecule and infinite atomic
relationships.

you see, i disagree with her purely because i have to,
the reason being that it's all about being; being both satin
and cadaverous wool, being both north and south
magnetic irregularities.

yes, this planet will spin! yes, there's movement even
in loneliness. yes, and one other yes! never constitutes
a sin.

i get tired of exclamation marks.
so does susanna, in her flightless yet bold
imaginings.

Touchstone 2009

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