at wits' end
descendants of our now
sift through debris
September 2015
(for Alan Summers on his birthday)
on waking
a candlelit drama
centre-stage
spring gloom . . .
the seeds once sown
still to die
recalling 9/11, drone bombings, Viet Nam, Hiroshima, Pukerangiora .........
dead silence . . .
and still the circus
and still the circus
goes on
words of war . . .
a prayer wheel
stages
a revolution
tower-fall—
big brother seizes
his cue
speak memory!
the hush of first love
awaits your words
your silence
after the universe
no longer could
undercover
paper-mâché dreams
of belonging
undercover
of paper-mâché dreams
of family
eluding the names
they bear
my ancestors' stars
seminal night . . .
salmon thrash upriver
by the stars
a free-floating comma eats roots and leaves
for H. Gene Murtha (4th September)
final straw
we draw the dark side
of the moon
without refuge
the other you are
is still me
petal fall
I too am becoming
not being
there! hear it!
line breaks voicing the void
within me
everything!
an atheorist
strings it along
dark energy
summing it all up
the name grasped at
À rebours
old fossils heaped up
on hot coals
climacteric change
orgaseismic knee-tremblor
copulanded genitivals
nature lover
with the windows closed
the screensaver
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