Child Folding Into the Cracks of the World...

As I walked along Beech, past the overgrown driveway of a bungalow and it's lounge where I once idled with girls and drink, cigarettes and tea, I started having visions, juvenescent recollections. My Primary School where wattle used to make my skin itch.. the streets of my Estate that seemed huge, so limitless, carrying my eyes to the other side of town- the summers on my bike felt like I was peddling worlds away.. the dewy tonic of untainted sunny June mornings.. the fog and chimney smoke undressing me in delicate night aromas, marinating the meat of my physical deep to the ethereal - the potpourri of winter night.. buddy lines after recess for rollcall in front house where God lived in a 14ct tabernacle, it creaked and moaned whenever I entered it (Moira and my mother used to clean the altar on a roster).. I drift away on the memories, I almost forget that I am walking. Walking under southern autumn clouds stirring silently partially opening up the sky all parcel-like, easy thighs are open for midnight madness all lotus-like in a purple horizon, near the Beech Street bridge above the creek that feeds the mouth of wetlands, one day it fed the heavens with a child and a heart attack. The Beech Street bridge was an intriguing gloom of concrete shelter for ruinous youths scribbling cocks and goats with paint-pens. It's been so long I almost forget what's underneath it. The only bridge on Beech, the lonely one, right near the Star Mart where we stole dirty magz and flicked through them behind the Church next door feeling all grown-up, while shadowed by our naivety. Oh our unruly sex and cuss brains.

I've walked my ghost all around this town, it was once the centre of my universe. Nothing mattered but butterflies and water fights, cinemas and junk food, who had the coolest bike and skate. Now all that matters is what you can salvage from old memories, how to survive life and an apocalypse, and the enigmatic chase of company to kill boredom and loneliness - romance is not dying alone, and love is the veil.
I want to know all these other humans, I want to know what they're about and what they want. I want to dig the unconcerned, dig all the passion, the shit, the spirited ones, the blondes, the dark hairs, the wild ones, the old ones, the goodsouls. All these strangers shuffling through the mambo of life in the occasional lackluster trashcan moon rotation, the occasional stupefying vacation of grandeur and splendor, til the drop.

It's always the night
beasts are joyous in the forest, that you trip over the stone. The one that's been waiting all the days of your birth, for your clumsy being.

Self exploration has the possibility to be the cruelest, most insane, manic, deranged, and violently destructive of all journeys, of all adventures, of all the powers of our intelligence.

Cairo Syndrome...

Could you hold the sun with bare palm

cupped milking summer 

to ooze through your fingers?

There's no clouds to shield faces

soft white 20 variants of sensitive 

A grim desert vestment

Melting in sunlight reserved for

ancient courts and 

celestial movements

Rooftop sunsets of satellite dishes 

suspect movement in slums

Hungry street kittens crying

for mothers milk and crumbs

My eyes hanging fixed

on minarets and ears tuned to

sweeping vocal chanting

bass vibrato

The meaning of life

Alarm clock set as Holy

sunrise and sensual

caressing of tender souls

The smell of lavish past lives

in glorious Cairo

The marble and whitewash

united with sheesha smoke

and falafel

Billboards for Pepsi when I,

I rather mint tea and a Marlboro

Bodies in bandages not unlike my father

though this time I saw the face

This ancient history exposed
in glass case

I thought about their many frowns

Looking long at long dead men and women

who once ruled lands as Gods

Built in honour of their divinity

Superiority through stone over slave Jews

and the uneducated

This decay was once a Pharaoh!
A Pharaoh! This decay!

Oh my, there's the death mask of Tutankhamun!

Miles, Accumulation...

Crackling yellow leaf dead forest waiting, under foot of white owls whistling winds clutching mountains

melting glaciers between the lips of an angel, between the thighs of midnight clasping suicide, all the pretty girls without dates screaming on rooftops over cities of whores and drunks, through the drizzle in Seattle

on nights they wish they weren't alone, coz loneliness is a drag when alone with themselves, pills only take them so far (to be continued...)

Doctor Sax by Jack Kerouac...

BOOK SIX

The Castle

pg.175-176

'How eagerly the youth doth pursue his legends, with a hungry eye,' whispered Dr Sax much amused. 'Would now the Ko-ranns of the grown up gulpitude make keen misery of that hitch. A hitch will disgust your mind in time. A hitch is called time in jail. You'll come to rages you never dreamed.'

'Me? Why?'

'You'll come to when you lean your face over the nose will fall with it - that is known as death. You'll come to angular rages and lonely romages among Beast of Day in hot glary circumstances made grit by the hour of the clock - that is known as Civilization. You'll roll your feet together in the tense befuddles of ten thousand evenings in company in the parlor, in the pad - that is known as, ah, socializing. You'll grow numb all over from inner paralytic thoughts, and bad chairs, - that is known as Solitude.  You'll inch along the ground on the day of your death and be pursued by the Editorial Cartoon Russian Bear with a knife, and in his bear hug he will poignard you in the reddy blood back to gleam in the pale Siberian sun - that is known as nightmares. You'll look at a wall of blank flesh and fritter to explain yourself - that is known as Love. The flesh of your head will recede from the bone, leaving the bulldog Determination pointing thru the pique-jaw tremulo jaw bone point - in other words, you'll slobber over your morning egg cup - that is known as old age, for which they have benefits. Bye and bye you'll rise to the sun and propel your mean bones hard and sure to huge labors, and great steaming dinners, and spit your pits out, aching cocklove nights in cobweb moons, the mist of tired dust at evening, the corn, the silk, the moon, the rail - that is known as Maturity - but you'll never be as happy as you are now in your quiltish innocent book-devouring boyhood immortal night.'

Maiden Made In Subconscious...

Dream double flees gracefully the red-dead half eternity of day and dark-expiry half eternity of night through past and rarity of prophecy, disruptively resulting in disoriented awakening of thought (and time) in case of flesh, to morntime glory day - sequential, unpredictable - another 400 breaths through the gloryhole straightshot to sky from the missing gum

First Thought Faucet...

Come one come all lock the door lay back banana hammock - shananana, panic! - Back burning ghosts in obtuse paddock, bats fall flat splat in tatters from orchid branches swaying in stiff winter murmer and inspiration catching stars like baseball gloves pitching holy hell, evoking red velvet rocking chair floating off floor of pat-i-o an' low slow bow-tied knots 'round aching tooth from fish bone and tap water tilting in

glass from 14,000miles away carried in a suitcase, and I remembered how wildflowers courted seraphim so resulting lovechild of Northern North America could hot bathe marrow of bone in reservations owned by Indians to meet me across from Eiffel Tower of little Paris fresh with smell of jasmine