I'm no cosmopolite.
My home is amongst black Billabong thongs,
green pinecones and torn envelopes proclaiming love.
The quagmire I struggle to stand in has been
invaded by loudness that knocks over
the fragile furniture of my mind.
Today the green light sweetens
with a sugary glow, sifting through kiwifruit leaves
and summer shadows that sway on the road.
It's a flaming-freezing paradox,
these angry, rhyming spits through the speakers
and the dulcet light basking in the breeze.
I search my skin for papercuts
but I suppose two nights ago
did not affect me as much as I had thought.
Yet cutting passionfruit for breakfast
slipped a false line of dripping red across my
finger that was too bright and candied to be blood.
Morning has settled back into the niche we call
the future and the perfervid streaks of exploded colours
are cooking under the ardent ground.
Today I missed the passion of the reborn sun shaking
its burning feathers, but I felt the boil in my sleep,
dreaming of exposure and invitations.
The tattoo of thirst which taps on the lime and lemon
grass calls in my head and my tongue moves
longingly in my mouth.
The redolent sky is lined with the memories of time.
The percentage I recognise is unable to be seen
from this distance, and this day is only a jejune secret.
written: Wednesday 12th January 2004, 3:50pm.
