holy shit. really?
the cooks
for madi
trained, the night
comes spilling its argot
among fresh stilt walkers.
A moon slice of fruit descends
the throat much like a messiah. I urinate
and add myself to
the river meets all parts
in damp sigh.
larry rivers and frank o’hara. yes, yes.
after Autumn in the Fitzroy Gardens
sibling shadow
and light born
under the womb of full moon
puncture holes in an eye tended ex-Jurassic garden.
We admire eternal autumns; always
almost winters still in silver halides. Outside
sight, raptors wait to pluck off
caretakers, politicians, clean mythical
teeth with the steel bones of inflexible hipsters.
Here, now gone
on breathing life
into a manicured jungle. Stale
leaved history book
here, now closed
quiet under time’s heel.
I find it difficult to imagine an after-life, such as Christians, or at any rate many religious people conceive it, believing that the conversations with relatives and friends interrupted here on earth will be continued in the hereafter. “Hello. Good morning. Do you remember Asgardstand? Do you remember that time when we shot at one another in Morocco?” But I do believe that there is a mysterious force that continues, so that we repeat ourselves like crystals that are dissolved and then re-crystalize again.
—
Edvard Munch, 1913
the bay holds the same
silver lips, sharp in defence
of a fool wind beating
up the wound of a river.
greeting a stranger
with tired beauty, buoying
the ferries that would use her.
Joseph Beuys, How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare, 1965
One of the artist’s most famous performances, Beuys covered his head first with honey, and then with fifty dollars worth of gold leaf. He cradles a dead hare in his arms, and strapped an iron plate to the bottom of his right shoe. Viewed from behind glass in the gallery, the audience could see Beuys walking from drawing to drawing, quietly whispering in the dead rabbit’s ear. As he walked around the room, the silence was pierced by intermittent sound of his footsteps; the loud crack of the iron on the floor, and the soundless whisper of the sole of shoe. (via)
wow
I had seen this photograph a dozen times before but never knew the context, more reasons why citing and crediting amazing things (all things) is important!
(via rebelsea)
many ganymedes come down to the park in winter
a clairvoyant told me I was a goat herder in a past life. also, Buffet is intriguing.
I remember Tim Hodge following the galahs with his sight. Leading them, actually, across the sky with a dirty length of string around their necks, tied to the mouth of the barrel. I can see those birds now and Tim’s explanation about the shots; tiny metal spheres, or worlds, catapulted through existence to end another. They would spread out; for an instant, a universe unto themselves. Separate, but clinging to each others’ trajectory and the communal form of their being. Death planets, radiating out. The sound would be made and one would fall. I hesitate to call it a landing. The bird fell from the sky. It tumbled. It hit the ground, awkwardly. I don’t remember covering the ground to see, or record it. The other birds kept formation. The other birds kept flying, following the contour of our eye. Or was it that we formed the outer limit of their gaze. We defined the existence of each other. Our absence meant their presence, our presence was their death. That day, we would shoot slugs into pigs, beat mice with poly-pipe as they scrambled from the cover of a lifted bale. We planned to divert the flow of a small creek, damming it and swimming in our achievement. After organising those around into a system of work, I would later knock down the clay and detritus that had formed a barrier. Tim would look up at me, in a bewilderment without anger; his mouth loose, stamping my memory with a demented circle. In an afternoon, we attempted to create and destroy those things that are made of many, many lifetimes, as our existence sped along, brimming; boiling itself away.
the afternoon has Jakartan breath
without the last nine meals
the steel city’s twang and belly breaks
like a sheep by its legs in the slaughter shed.
neo-Platonian lovers trip and sway
in the dark pools of life and ancestor birds take
off their garlands of stolen silent
white flesh bells and stewed
crowns of quinces
(the inside colour and sticky).
the day is under our finger nail
does the silver shard
return to the earth.
hold your vowels steady
outside isotopes
steal my breath
take it back
steal my breath
breathe it back
steal my breath
breathe it back between my legs steal my breath
sleep cold on top
and follow me dripping
to my dreams.
angel on Flickr.
