Thursday, 17 August 2017

Anyway, Waterfall...


Stuck on the last page
of the poetry book blues,
BB king died the other day and
Nuthin new to be news but news is a trap,
Now is like my kids today while autumn
Not yet falling to winters crystal sunlight
and the some leaves still clinging,
Like how now is too beautiful to express
And a violence in splashing too many rocks into
a side of the forrest walk wishing pond,
so small and graceful it could be for fairies,
now is I can’t tell you what they wished for
nor what they’re dreaming of now
in peace spacesuit breathings beatitude,
now thinking my adult attitude over complex,
rememories of why I had to leave the poetry gig early
and caught all Lego piece light words
for moth switch right anyway
upon just the right metaphor,
two Hindu men that day pointing to my aum badge
and saying things like O that’s the why of the world!
The fork of the river!
and yes it had a beautiful longer version anyway
and the beautiful people were too painfully curved
into bad capitalistic machines
not toys made of the parking metre,
yet, why is always too beautiful
for this old tree stone from the hills…
all the meanings left behind
I can’t remember,
for now is a silent deep well
that the moon leaves in the sun,
especially when that girl who
I thought connect realizes
I’m gone a leap of the last verb,
And cockatoos are some of the most
playful birds for no reason,
spirals for any no reason
there on facebook in no one’s everyone,
simple wondering what stuck together songs
and stories gunna build
themselves tomorrow
outta ordinary,
what excuses for air currents swirl on
end-of-light shadow ball wall outta memes
and themes such as Whitman randomly
poking his face out of a frame on my table
and with lifted bushy eyebrow, telling me;
“why yes son Maya is the dreamer
and Heidegger is a hydrogen seashell
left upon a powerline on Brunswick rooftop
near a waterfall, but you knew
that didn’t you?”
and yes its all gunna collapse when
ink pin steps forth and drops anyway,
in the mean time I finally lit
my writers candle in my darkness
and am breathing,
so look;
the unicorn herds
run across the blue grass sky,
the naked men and women who ride them
never needed to wear clothes their whole lives
and the cashless catchless knowing
of who does what in their society,
and the don’t worry,
now is the hazy ‘ol
green not-too-real ground in fuzzy smile,
a centre up that thinks it’s all too perfect to anyhow,
and so spaceships with Elizabethean bathtubs
fly by…

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