From The Year Nothing by Paul Hardacre

Carriage 583

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
to stumble
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.

Killer Jeans

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      is      bleeding
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