september the second two thousand and thirteen

three hundred thousand pound a week for a soccer player

twenty four million dollars a year for a banker

seven dollars twenty five cents for a McDonald’s worker per hour

hard rubbish

she put it on the verge

mouth set in one straight line 

this was the last of him  

fold up bed where he slept

after whatever it was had 

blown out

blown up

blown away

the hump backed tele

like them — no longer worked

love nest mattress

just looked stained

his clothes

his boots

his shaving cream

book of Australian love poems

back broken

beer fridge with footy stickers

half finished novel

palm fronds she waved

before she saw

he wasn’t going to save her

she wasn’t going to save him

hard rubbish

untitled

first light, coffee brews
campers air sleeping bags
over no camping signs

fire ticks

fire ticks
rain ticks
as the clock

clouds spit

in time

wind sun water

press into bedrock        

with flora fish fauna

in time

all turns to stone 

the stratigrapher

married to patterns in strata

repeat/repeat/repeat

she knew land language

translated granite to geometry

with rose scented hands

imposed the grid

anchored in bedrock

in her home floats in the sky

where the sunshine

where the sunshine is

just a little closer to thee

and thee and thee

anchored to bedrock legends

spelled in geology’s design

we turned through

day/night/day/night/day

after dark

the milkyway

printed stories on black

we saw a red moon’s last flicker

as it fell flaming to the sea

gloom extinguished white stars

hours layered dark

before light was summoned by crow call then magpies woke and redtails cheered  

after party

Went to the North Perth house, took cakes chosen with care, raspberry, lime, vanilla, apple, cream, custard, pastry, crumble, real fruit. Drove. Drove. Drove. Avoided other’s duco, indicated with law abiding courtesy, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir, Paddington Street speed humps grunted twenty twenty twenty at my shockies, padded down the sand path, wrapped cakes crinkled, bike shop shut, bus stop empty, burnt out ute, sign posts to the right house, party house, barbeque in the afternoon house, the abandoned party began at the verge, stumbled past the wiper-snipper cowed cactus, smashed up the steps, stubbed out on the garden path, broke on the veranda, spewed through the hall, the kitchen and staggered on out into the art installation backyard, where still it seemed, men danced, women danced, smoke curled, snags sizzled, onions sparked taste buds, dark liquid swirled into jars, in corners, on grass, heads, shoulders, bodies mounded together, thump, twang, bass mutter, bouncing ball words — shades, shadows, traces — all still, still there but now morning sunlight harder than a concrete head slam, exposed rot¸decay with glint and sparkle.

we cut the cakes

cream custard

road kill guts

squeezed out

we fell on it like wild hungry puppies

babies — two

time to sit still — a shuffle — a paper dropped — a thoughtless sigh — will send them into the air — babies — two — feral doves — just left home — finding it almost too hard — taking the sun — I hope they have learned about cats — they are a food favoured by cats — do they know this? — these babes from out of the woods — I want to give them seed but maybe it is better they learn their own birdy ways.

morning of my birthday

          first awake

          first awake

          first awake

on the morning of my birthday

earphones whisper news

backdrop low grey cloud

only sounds

crow galah car

crumpled snore 

lover-breath

the need to clean teeth

on the morning of my birthday

i was screaming

         screaming

         screaming in my sleep

graveside

my cousin graveside began to slip… my mother and I caught  her… one on each arm… held her upright on the carpeted ground… she threw red roses into her mother’s grave… my mother and I threw rosemary and lavender stolen from strangers’ gardens… tied with ribbons cut from our clothing… a baby laughed — waved a fat white fist at the rolling sky… the grandsons lowered my aunt into her white sand grave… my uncle’s ashes went with her…  unmentioned … it was Mum’s day her second child said … afterwards as we had homemade cakes and sausage rolls prepared by the Anglican Ladies… they stood at the servery window and smiled as we ate…

at the wet dry interface

wind builds sand grains into dunes

waves lick the beach into hard dark wrinkles

untitiled

a few olive leaves
cast shadows
over the garage door
chinese characters
they might read
open
or
closed
or entering autumn