Tag Archives: self

Paint Some Trees

It doesn’t snow here
The ice would marry the red dirt
And the ghost gumtrees
Would become a canvas
For blood red handprints

I see my breath instead
Winter catching in my throat
Like a secret
Cold stuck in my lungs
Like a disease

The icy breeze gets in my knuckles
It swells my bones
And scares my body
From the inside out
Pushing needles through my skin

Fifty years from now
When the cold is too much
And my body old
I will envy the very day
I am living now

Best go paint some trees




My titles

I don’t want to be a rural library

Full of expected titles

Thrillers with predicted deaths

And echoed romances

A hero atrophied by his own ego

Loving a sugary woman with closed lips

Chapters of long gazes and held breaths

A history book finishing at 1984

And incorrect African geography


I want to be the tiny bookstore

With a blue front door

Only found by a strange set of wooden stairs

I want second hand titles

No one has read since 1972

A little slip of paper between pages 48 and 49

A pressed ticket to a Bowie concert

In the front

And a receipt for three months rent

In the back


I want to be a secret

Still Like Statues

There are holes all through my lungs.
I smoked until my chest caved in and my heart halted still like a black rock.
There are clumps of mistakes in my arteries;
Giant warnings for blood to go no further lest we breach the weir beyond.
I lived until I couldn’t any longer, there wasn’t much left of me.
I was tired.
I was breathing too many times in a minute and my hands were always full.
I’d scream at the sky every time it rose,
Like I was pleading for a better run at the tides.
“Wash me away, take me to the next shore, clean my mind and slough my skin”
I’d cry these things and fall asleep deep within the arms of a busy night
Only to wake with the same mislaid problems

A Ghost At My Table

There’s a ghost at my table
And she hasn’t eaten anything I’ve offered

I think I shall see if it’s memories she is hungry for
I have a whole pantry of those just waiting for consumption

She might like my first kisses
My late nights of lovers and tantrums
My smoking and drinking
My mistakes and my messes
She can eat my childhood in a few gulps
There’s much there that might choke her
If she were to worry it before swallowing

Perhaps I mightn’t actually, just for now
She won’t starve if I don’t feed her
There are many people in the world who forget who they are
Their memories are left by roadsides for the taking
Some are blown about by careless winds
So many bubbles of moments swept up to be engulfed by another

Mine are colour coded, labelled and dusted
Kept carefully and away from direct sunlight
In specific rows

I think I’ll keep my memories,
I’ll eat them all for myself,
They will be sumptuous and delicious

My ghost can wait
For now