You never realise...

You never realise how big the sky is
Until there are no mountains to share it with...

It's short!
I thought of it whilst being driven around in Normandy. There aren't any mountains, and the sky looks enormous.

War porn has always existed.

With each sensual finger,
War beckoned.
The guns screamed
come!
The tanks groaned
come!
The trenches whispered
come!
The dead men said
no...
But the posters cried
NOW!

And now,
we watch the excitement
on small, grainy screens;
horrified, panting, aroused,
as real people are obliterated.
Because peace is never as seductive
as the pornography of war.

Peace, love and slightly politically incorrect poetry.

Again...

Again, again
I've written your name
in my little book.

Train, train
again, your name
scrawls itself.

Grass, grass
tumbles past.
I write your name.

Keep, keep
your memory, asleep
under my coat

Grey, grey
old motorway.
I write your name.

Eyes, eyes
and billboard lies
grow and shrink.

See, see
Nothing is free
but your name.

I don't usually post poems straight out. I write them up on word, leave them for a few weeks, then come back an fussily change one or two words. If I'm still not happy it will be another few weeks before they make it onto the net. Sometimes I forget that I've written them. But this poem was transcribed straight from a few jotted lines in my notebook. :) Hope it's okay.

Thirty-nine pills

I tip the plastic bottle over.
The pills spill out.
I watch them settling on my desk.
With the shrunken eyes of a dealer.
I count them in multiples of three.
Smooth under my shaking fingers.
I take too many as it is.
And habits are filthy.
I slip the last pill into the bottle.
With the tight relief of an addict.
Thirty-nine in total.
The Vitamin C will last ‘til next month.
My saviour.

Black Saturday

Sunday Morning

The smell of burning,

the flicker and scrawl of news.

A smoky stillness…

Sunday Night

The spit and swallow

of nightmares and leaping flames.

Their faces, blackened.

Monday Morning

Their faces, smiling,

as we all wrap arms and laugh,

eyes a hazy red.

Monday Night

Relief is short-lived,

as the death count climbs higher

under the grey shroud.

Now

Two hundred and eight,

Black Saturday, they call it

Branded by firestorm

The Ceremony

The throb of music,

The spirits gather once more

A smoky stillness…

Written after the Black Saturday bushfires under a red, shrivelled sun.

This Isn't a Boarding House

This isn’t a boarding house;

it’s hell with cubicles.

The carpet is vacuumed daily,

for health and hygiene,

but the smell of tedium never fades.

And lights out is always too early.

The air conditioner hums ceaselessly;

the air chilled to a crisp in summer,

and caked dry in winter.

But hell is always clogged

with clothing and chatter and sickle deodorant.

Some of us try to gloss our kennels

with pretty doonas and posters and ribbons.

Succeeding only in painting everything

another shade of bland.

We graffiti, and mark our place:

“Caz luvs Emi ‘02”

The offenders survived Hell,

but will I?

Written by the green glow of an exit light at 12.30pm, after another long night in the boarding house.

Golden Arches

Golden Arches

They’re there, unmistakable.

Between burning tarmac

and burning sky.

The happy-daffodil yellow

seared into our cities.

Don’t worry, children,

You’ll never have to kill

for your next meal;

we already did it for you.

Though the fluorescents burn harshly,

And the meat burns cruelty,

And we burn our dollars,

For a fast feast

of oils and additives

and slaughtered integrity

to fuel our gorged existence.

And nothing asks why

like those golden arches.

Ignorance and insincerity,

Enshrined.

Maccas made me vegetarian.