Dead weathered dog
mingles with wattled floorboards
of grey sun, milk urns
and the rusted fear of water spiders.
The land has always been this way for me.
Walk in the corrugated snake grass and you just
might find your destiny
unless you're lucky enough
and avoid it.
Burning kittensong fills me with the choking tendencies
of sawdust and lips stitched shut. In a distant place
relatives fill my cavities with the finest fruits and
adoringly cry go and sleep go and sleep Okanko go and sleep.
Smoke clears and I walk on, city soft mind your toes
take your rubbish with you.
Carrion pick at the ants and juice carcass of
chewed-out arse and softest eyes. This is its way. It will find you.
Stumble, if you like.
If the forest of her hair
Calls you to explore the land,
And her breasts, those mountains fair,
Tempt that mountaineer, your hand -
Stop! Before it is too late:
Love, the brigand, lies in wait.
through the keyhole romeo
oldman drilling some one-armed russian
mafia seductress & god he looks hot in those italian
suits new york cop playing both sides against the
middle his suspicious wife
forsaken fell in love with a hole in the ground
white whispers & you're rubbing against me
grinding back & forth in white boyleg
cottontails sweating the triangular bathroom
light something jumping in your shirt my
hand & the magnolia of your skin new
religion in my mouth hiding the curved form
of your breasts doppelganger watches from
the corner ensanguined spiders search the doorway
for truth & the sound of the ceiling
fan & the heat of your cunt gets me that much
closer frame by frame & somewhere the
fracture of hair & sheets walks he streets the
sweet shine of eyes counting in tens dreaming
peacocks a hanging garden hungry for sun
rocket ships & mountains singing 'kiss me on,
kiss me on the lips.'
© Paul Hardacre