Small Charms

Words by Blake Falcongreen.

I.

The grass is now spiky,

   It’s become hard to keep

Quiet the old cattle

   Who by the feed bails bleat.

It was drought last season,

   (Still is down by the creek)

Near the starving cattle

   We carved old bones on bricks–

Drew faces on their thighs

   With the nearby black rocks,

Possessed by a fancy

   That from our long dead stock,

We might create something

   That could both please and shock.

II.

A collection

   Of black rocks in

Terracotta

   Pots (with Mother

Of Pearl) and small

   Stems growing tall,

By the garden

   They slowly harden.

III.

Enough with the stillness,

   I can hardly bear it–

You should move more often,

   There’s grass in the garden–

New pavement on the road,

   And a shallow gulley–

Beyond which you can swim

   With the water beetles.

IV.

Have you ever sat in

   A pool filled with black rocks?

I was alone back then,

   It was something to do,

We all do stupid things

   (The worst things happen) on

      Quiet suburban nights.

V.

black rocks black rocks black rocks

black rocks I’m rocks black rocks

black rocks black choking rocks

black rocks swimming on rocks

black rocks black rocks black rocks

black rocks black rocks black rocks

VI.

I’m frenetic,

   So they all say,

Sensitive and

   Rabid, meagre

And fragile, sharp

   And spiny (or

Spineless) and cruel,

   Wanton and slow,

Distrustful when

   The sun goes down,

But who isn’t

   In the starkness

Of a quiet

   Suburban night.

VII.

simmer spin buzz cauldron hot stuff elegant glazed-marzipan tortured elephantal ego // side-moved ego // the wounded pride of six thousand men underneath you // they’re like nutrients // rise above them I say // they never mattered anyway–

singing buttresses evocative trees // the splendid night-time by the harbour // with its crescent bays and rolling forest ravines // deserted as if by mandate // the lucid toxic water pogroms of nearby creeks and concrete canals // six thousand dead carp floating along the river // bloated // belly skyward // vessels for parasites and small spaghetti worms // invisible unless you look hard enough–

VIII.

where did the energy go?

we were once so full of it, moved so rapidly,

we ran like waterfalls, foaming at the mouth,

running with incestuous dreams of country and lifestyle,

next to the city park we threw rocks and ate cupcakes and drew paths in the grass, it was susceptible to our small charms, I broke sticks with my fingers by the park benches there,

(we all did)

it was commonplace but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special,

that made it more special, to break the same branch,

and walk over the same gravel.

Art by Shrawani Bhattarai.

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