'the essence of coffee, 6 p.m. sunday'


there's
an experiment to be found
in all of this, here, awake
yet eternally sleepy and fused
to this bed which speaks of a father
i saw and hugged and told i
didn't connect with when i was barely
thirteen, just getting into the vibrancy
of teenage depression and the accompanying
pull of heartbeats found only in poetry
and the smell of pregnant summer and
foetal-cramped wind pushed over
the hairs of my fingers travelling through
the pages of a book i carried with me
just yesterday, spray-paint waves lurching
my stomach and telling me it's only half a
journey, that i should swim in the kina-infested
bay out here in the hauraki's
crystal glare.

shoosh.



'koru'


synchronicity
between endless rain
and the curve of your
voice 

i
will forget
all of this tomorrow
being monday
and a stony deliverance
of impromptu games
and handshakes given
when there is only
emptiness
on my part

only
being an invention
of half-formed notes
and crescent moons
i've stumbled under
here in winter fog
and searchlights
tracing sand
and fingers
rippling
over flax

halos crushed
between this day
and the next

wind and denial
a futile breath

stones shiver
and blue
becomes
brown



'note to self: go to sleep, asshole'


no mention

to what
you describe
in what you
assume to
be a red
balloon arcing
toward double
helix rainbows
crushed between
stamen and
pearl and broken
headphones still
warbling in
that static
random
nothingness
pervading
this still
yet smoky
air which
could give
birth any
time soon to
a bluebottle
baby strangled
by
its
own
umbilical
insomnia.



'curtains, infant, joy'


pale
desiderata
war
and the angle
of cheekbones
caught

between infinite
and the taste
of sorrow

walking
alone

                       what it means
to believe           and search
ash                              still air
fetid                 disappointed
disillusioned    transparent

in the way                          all
and everything

merge.



'rosetta: inkstains for n'


the way
destinations
become
a landscape
of fingers
asking
for sundays
where

i flinch
flippantly
over this
conversation
we marry
with faceless
gestures

each night
swearing this
would be
the second
to last: joined
yet only
streets
apart

(strangely
naked
and

comfortable)



'Polemics'


Morning, another yesterday conquered. Each
self a whisper of previous weekends earthed in
flightless essays. On the bus: fugitive fingers,
a stony smile, a sunrise three hours too early,
and coffee's cold rush out the door
just like every Monday to Friday
delivered to you.

Virtuous, you speak of unison as if discordance
was his twin. It's a lie, a fat-flowered lie. It's Rome
crumbling, porticoes wild-eyed at centuries gone by.
Resolute, these nights herald a procession of
sly stars hidden behind clouds. And you,
yawning, blaming the wisdom of a rare corona:
You, believing home to be a desperate alliance.

What of mystery, of saffron coating pistil
and stamen with gold instead? The price:
alchemical, aqua vitae transformed to dust.
The timing: a metamorphic
crush.



'hopeful, yes? nods. of course.'


a vista, unchecked because otherwordly should exist
beyond mountaintops desirous of more than fortune

and distilled joy. this is violet commotion, the angle
of shoulders rubbed raw, silent and still, the broken

chill of winter departing: blossoms, kisses, unearthly
wishes, circles upon water and stone. hosanna,

the crush of fingers aching for empty to know.



'rosary'


glad
for the wonder apparent
even at 3 a.m.
in the wooden clang of chimes hidden
and again which ignorance seems to miss
distance between bodies and fiery salt to lips
forgiveness and compassion under coverlets
warm hands found only in memories
slowly shivering

i would be
on this road again
at night questioning each bend
each traffic light from the city centre
of no consequence
eyes blind to the colour of hills 
flattened beneath smoke and endless industry
the cogs of each worker wondering why
there's never an end
 
in all of this
i find absolution
to every sin



'flora'


   she
holds)
   waiting
for a clover
   -leaf
and a
   bumble
bee:
   (pollen-
nova
   smoke
and dust



'nodsagain'



meissleepysleepybutwideawakeasalwaysgoddammit
andbunnywabbitseatingtofuandcherrytomatosammies
whilelisteningtosammydavisjunioroutonthedeckat
twointhemorningpissingtheneighboursoffbecause
they'resomewhatnormalanddon'tlikepeoplelikeme
beingupandupandupandsometimesdownthinkingabout
peasandcarrotsandasmatteringofgravyandperhaps
aminceandcheesepietogowiththespirulina
fruitjuiceihadjusttoday. uh. yeah.



'Final Curtain'


As a foreigner, he's astonished by the awkward
gawks spun his way. His eyes: novels straining
to carry truth in observation, and delight in all
things small and wondrous. An infant holds
more charm in its squalling limbs reaching
for the nearest toy, over the confessions
of a man born to war and sullen disorder.
Upon reflection, he finds faith in this land's
flora and fauna, tucked in hills and forests
dotted silently with the cough of one who's
only travelled in books. He asks you: What of
skylines smirched with smog, ants with masks
offering prayers to the golden dollar? To excess,
and an unworthy form of existence: a symposium
of muted notes.



'And if'


You know
      there's     something               
                   terrible
in the way            conversation
                   becomes
a dustyknee         shiver           of etiquette:
of not saying               or believing
a glossed-over          reflection         
mentioning 
     past
     weekends.

You know
Iflickermymoods           on       
        and off                  and in between            
        these headaches         and denials 
        saxophones         and accordians
        played
        one note out of synch      
        — a prayer where
        there are no words— 
        only sibilance
        and currents
        of something
        said
        Tomorrow.

   If
only.
And
   if
Moments
became
   bliss.



'contrasts'


hush
and what that means
snuggled, pearlescent, the taste
of sunday pikelets and plunger coffee.

say tomorrow and the next will come.
it is too quiet here. i contemplate the question of faith
and how i'll need hours and hours in the confession box,
just enough to shock the priest into silence.

you say they call it reconciliation now, and that latin
has been overtaken by plain old english. to understand
in another tongue requires all-believing grace,
i can almost hear them rattle away.

speak of sails wrapped around this curve of wind,
baked golden bodies alive and fortunate.
tear this silence and make me sing.
just for today. just for today.

'oasis'


know nothing is
truly sinful where melody
is concerned, breached space
between summer nights and the cold loins
of forgotten breath

exhale, disengage
into fractals, stormy passages.
this, green, and a touch of violet cloud
unimpressed with wreaths laid under
chiselled cliffs

arching, graceful, the sweep of grass
in our fingertips



'Syntax, Disclosure'


Forgetfulness, so overrated.
I swear the office cat makes more noise.
Erasure, and all that it means when kissing the void.
When embracing strangers. In that space between
pleasant chit-chat and full-scale war
as you insult my foreignness.

"I've been here since I was four," I tell you.
"You speak better English than I do," you reply.

And we smirk
in unison.



'dionysus'


belief beyond pages, in the finite reasoning hidden in another house.
a temple of fingers searching for the divine
but coming up empty.

you speak of shadows, of temptations found in troubled flesh and wine.
forget of all the little songs devoted to you by a father long lost
to another country, another wife.

he would tell you this is how the seasons burn, how each card is flipped
to reveal the scent of a dusty room: concrete, acrid, a flute
and piano in opposing rhythm.

how to believe in circles and freedom, and in the homely and true?
dispossession in corners and angles, and a body
sorely out of tune.



'Chechnya'


Young enough that you wouldn't take up knitting just yet
Or believe the absence of babies to be a futile work in progress.
It's time that yellow didn't mean cowardice
Or being given jaundiced looks
On how Natalya Estemirova didn't deserve to be murdered.
But, conspire all you want; practice the religion of subterfuge.
Drink Earl Grey tea with a tiny, enamelled spoon:
Sugar for the believers, cream for the yet to be converted.
And swirl the leaves for those who object to prophecy
From a textbook. 

No matter. 
This belly is full.



'lux'


mindful
there is time you say because
life is a dollop of green and sometimes
tomorrow-yellow, sometimes evening
grey

mindful
of a starfish upon your palm
gold arms, tendrils, nova
dust and maps
between
veins pulsed
with silver
light



'Friday Sniffles'


Speak plainly, or bury yourself in books.
Nabokov never looked so plaintive, hushed
transit between eye to page. Here is earth and fire,
relentless coffee questions, mercurial smoke:
The sound of five in a room, lamplight, and Roux.
Give him a bellyrub. It's impossible to refuse.

Articulation. A swirl of Frangelico.
These cold nights, a stony 'flu.



'pearl'


this still air
affords no comfort
or wet laughter at three in the morning—
these are shadows and wobbly-kneed uncertainties
forgotten yet forgiven and found.

wake up all arc-eyed and insignificant.
purr and remember how soft yesterday always becomes.
ride with the cold wind shivering through your limbs—
because that's all you know
when singing makes
no difference.

i trace hyacinths, bougainvillea
into your palm.

'alpha'

i, fragile, and i
know you know
this chaos seems
more than a
figurative illusion
of scraps and
forgotten twos
divided, equal
and truly
unknowing.

'ergo'


twenty
seven reasons
to curve
this crushing rain
back beyond
my gate.

a diaspora of fingers
clutching wildly

at paintings.


     maybe

there's a word            yet          
to                  be captured
which describes a mixture
                     of the irrefutable
and the sublime: a pastiche
of belief               crowned      
with violent
laughter)

     i
never said          i
could forget to dream.
rather, the veins in my wrists reveal
an inner sanctum                of worry—  
                          of melancholic
                          breathing.

the taste
of turquoise at sunset  
— bare feet         on crushed clover
my only religion—
         (numbers   patterns   logic:
              a faint wrinkle     
      to iron out
        
precariously.


truth
and all i mentioned yesterday
in my sleep.