Dying –
it’s a little like that back there
“Get a tan, man!” – the beastie boys jeer,
white-raged, she’s facing off fear
Out here, the limits are none
her swirling strands of red-yellow-gold, spun
into halos burning bright as the sun,
jewelled auras for silent incantation,
reposed in peaceful contemplation
of fancies, unbound by vituperation
underwater, she is as fish,
swims human stark antithesis,
becomes her Aphrodite wish
———-
Updated for Sideview’s weekend theme of Beauty
Autumn, we lay lines,
unfurling across alpine waters,
to flycatch a trout’s eye
Spring,
we are copper lizards
on rocks trailing
the flowered creases
of Crackenback
Autumns and summers,
we zigzag
to the summit,
always a marking of sorts –
birthdays, deaths, waiting out
open-heart surgery –
from afar
A lifetime of seasons
ago – before I left –
you said
the mountain came down
and swallowed lives,
wanted me to know
that bad things happen elsewhere
too
as if somehow that would make
me see,
stay…
Now, it’s winter –
we’re making virgin
tracks
in snow
when the eye
of a raven catches
mine,
a gelid reminder
of these invisible scars –
the ley lines
that connect this place
to your passing
In hands made
to heal, did the shaking
of a child’s delight become
monstrous crystal ball
Stalin
Hitler
Akazu
revealed
as snow settled
into blood
stains seeping
across continents,
and out
through your
fingers?
Did you
catch the shadows
in a father’s benevolent eyes?
Is that why,
Ana,
you lie cold
beneath the snow,
silenced by your
own hand?
He could not hide
in plain sight
from you
Sometimes,
we turn away from work,
inhale others’ gardens,
look out at iridescent birds,
shapes cast by the sun
Sometimes, we ignore our chores,
cycle the distant suburbs,
look at how another tenth live,
eat exotic foods on the streets
Sometimes, we forgo the car,
ride the ferries and trains,
look for treasures in labyrinthine shops,
play tourist for a day
Sometimes, we shun the inner life,
chase the little white ball,
look right, look left (up at that thieving crow),
rarely straight down the middle
Sometimes, we blow the budget,
wine and dine on the Quay,
watch the passing parade,
the city at play
Sometimes, we forget ourselves,
lie outside in the dark,
look up, and beyond
to the edge of the universe
and close our eyes
in peace
was it the 500,000th
cigarette
that threw the switch,
sent
your light flickering?
i see you bathed in darkness,
no light, no air,
just the rasping
of short-circuitry
Was the timer on before
you were born?
i don’t know…
Maybe the 500,001st
was the nth
of vice,
lights-out for a pulse
If Leibniz were alive, i would
ask him,
but we wouldn’t
share a smoke
I glimpse
your ghost
in
the sure hands
of a carpenter,
the polished grain
of Oregon pine,
the automatic way I
switch off the light when leaving a room,
the geometric folding of
a newspaper
on the train,
UPPER-CASE EMAILS,
those who talk to
dogs
as if they were human,
to humans
as if they were
joy itself,
the cheerful scatting
of a man in his shed,
brother’s
exasperation when someone goes right
to turn left,
sliced tomato on toast,
and – every morning –
in the shapes
of my
toes
—
“Have a good evening, young lady!”…
we share a knowing
chuckle
across tender,
hormone-free beef –
middle-aged
people,
for a moment
not
invisible
Image via http://www.sxc.hu
He ate Suzi’s paella
and dreamed of Ipanema,
of romance in Marbella
and Rio de Janeiro
–
He ate Fleur’s rindless blue
his dreams were psychedelia
he dreamt he was Theroux,
da Vinci and Ophelia
–
He drank Ping’s green absinthe
and dreamt he was a fairy
with eyes as green as minthe
his wand, a blue canary
–
He ate Fang’s chou dofu
her durian, then balut,
and napped as King Shi Chu
at war with King Canute
–
He ate Ann’s cherry duck
nightmared of Gordon Ramsay
who served confit of muck
with jus of some philandery
–
Then came Maeve’s Irish Stew,
no dreams his sleep disturbed
and as he woke he knew
his food of love’d been served
filicide
closed you in at night,
no space to breath, but
we thought we were
safe, years
on
a sparkling day,
something faceless
on the breeze,
snaring
your shadow,
hermetic fate
sealed
by a pernicious beast, forever
changing the way
we navigate
the world
If there are more than a billion atoms in a .
how does it compute for a quark?
If the universe has all the atoms it ever will
is our fate just a ?
Cannot
draw, paint, sculpt,
create symphonies, move to
mirth or action,
enthrall,
sing with the voice of angels
(or the sublime Ms Fitzgerald),
cure with digitalis,
build to withstand
the aftershocks of a billion
humans,
yet,
can,
in an instant,
locate true north
of a moral compass,
see the colour of a
beating heart
The esky’s packed with ice and toots,
we’ve phoned for fish ‘n chips,
dressed down in thongs and ugg boots,
for the nuptials of His Nibs
—-
Our PM, a Republican daggy,
an atheist, and unmarried to boot,
will schmooze at Westminster Abbey
with First Bloke, toasting our roots
—
‘The Chaser’s been given the flick,
Beeb and not-amused Charlie to blame,
Instead, Antipodean kicks
will come from that dodgy old Dame
—-
Yes, for today, we’ll forgo real news,
indulge in some frivolous folly,
chuck a sickie from workaday blues
and quaff a few bottles of Bolly
—
Like a champion, he takes the blows,
And they keep on coming,
left, right, uppercut, and…
(Commentator) “Ohhh, that was dirty, but LIFE
hasn’t blown his whistle!”
..punch-drunk, reeling, but he’ll not lie
down for a TKO –
never give the schadenfreude crowd
their satisfaction
If you were first to look her in the eye,
would you plunge that dagger through her heart?
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golden opportunity –
wormhole to a smidgen of
the universe –
squandered
in too much big
hair, Kate Bush
and Saturday Night Fever,
and,
who cares to know it,
an absence of self-trust,
So,
mathematics – the Ark of the Covenant,
and I – just another stupid girl
it’s
the dark, those monsters
under the bed, first day
at school – bruce m trying to kiss
you in the sandpit
and hell-to-pay for jumping in every puddle on your way home,
men in hearses and dark
glasses – stranger-danger,
not running solo, nor flying, but
an umbrella on the wind – cruel and unusual,
old man on the street corner –
feathered hat, immaculately
polished shoes, threadbare clothes,
a broken headlamp in the rear-view
and unspeakable things,
and then, you know, the death of a parent,
DNA gone awry,
that your actions caused this –
suffering,
not of your own shadow but
rage, betrayals,
the sound
of your own screaming,
depravity of infant
body-bombs,
spectres – Margaret Hassan, the Falling
Man,
Afghani children smashed
into dirt playgrounds,
the death of dreams, sadness
of others,
hearts beating through walls,
and then,
somehow, nothing
much
at
all
…
least of all
death
So, you went to a place you don’t belong,
knew, of course, that it was wrong,
spied troubled waters, jumped right in
with fatuous thoughts that you could win
Wild force unseen, current strong,
roared out to sea, swept you along,
dragged and drowned you in your whim,
I feel the bounce before the break
I’m entwined…
so strong –
is he trying to trap me in his crucifixed
silence
as I go to water the Tibouchina?
On the back porch, an unknown abseiler
at the penumbra
of sunlight reveries –
Miss Muffet redux,
So, I clean
and re-arrange
the garden furniture, that canvas
of redback cubism
I don’t care much for
C-sharp minor
plays through the eaves
of this house,
wind-cold emptiness, the ambient noise
of destruction
where laughter once lived,
Shoji, last opened to plum-blossom whispers,
now lachrymose with silent
half-life,
a bird singing for
no-one
Midday,
it’s lunching,
suited in boardroom sociopathy
By 3pm, its black sartorial
boredom hangs
in downtown coffee bars
The city, at 6, loosens silk ties, casts lustful
stares across crowded pubs
Its throaty, pashmina’d laughs drift
over footlights at 8,
Around 10, it’s sporting fusion-cuisined
energy and scent of MSG
Overtimed road-crew neon reflects
stumbling stillettoes,
come midnight
And at 2am, it’s pyjama-shuffling
its drug-coma’d streets,
mad-haired, in the darkness
But you’ll find it
just before sunup,
reposed against periwinkle sky,
at its naked
best
beeblu blog 
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