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.