When I soak up your face
It’s a simple release
Quickly tightened by scars
And then empty like dusk.
When the sparks lose all fire
And all my fears come with calm
I think fake reunions
And piece things up oddly.
When I dream about you
It’s a crash course in pain,
A night plane’s fake star
Leaving trails for the morning,
A huge restless head,
A sky soaked in oil.
Shirt button torch light
Glowing out gently,
An owl’s plastic face,
A small marbled dolphin.
Shirt button torch light
Making the walls move,
A dog on a hillside,
A sky caught by cobwebs.
Shirt button torch light
Absorbing the TV,
A hero splits cotton,
A bad guy melts softly.
Shirt button torch light
Fading out slowly,
A flickering signal,
A thought before darkness.
A week of factory smoke
Glued tight by a still wind,
Sitting pink above a sunset,
Flamingo clouds
Perched in the country.
Cats fang voles,
Pheasants skip like infants,
Bullocks sulk in unison
And the sky interrupts with showers
As I sit cold on a bench,
Rain waking my face,
My shivering body
Bringing the trees to life,
Leaves gently falling,
My heart beneath soil.
You were the fresh talking peach,
The sunny harmony of a big world,
The monumental new day strike.
You spoke the sleepy wisdoms of honey
And laughed like the mellowest siren,
But your liquid eyes
Dawned behind windows
As you knuckled my spine
And then strayed like the wind.
Your electric face was like a disease
And you left me talking to failure,
Looking high into an empty sky empire,
My stare wild as dust
As the stars learned nostalgia.
I haven’t got a net,
A box or a jar,
But into the dining room
I roam,
Hunting for custard butterflies
To call my own.
Very rarely they flap,
Unless blown on a spoon,
And very rarely they flutter
Unless captured too soon.
But the expedition my friends,
The expedition is on
And when I find the custard butterflies
They soon will be gone.
For the hunt,
Yes the hunt,
Oh the hunt!
Is never a chore
The only downside
Is that I’m left wanting more.
More of the butterflies,
The sweet, creamy butterflies,
The yummy on flutter pies,
The scrummy on mutter sighs,
Bring me a farm,
A plantation,
A zoo
Of custard butterflies,
Until my utter size
Becomes a gut
Of splutter cries.
I’m sitting on
An old tractor tyre
On the edge of the woods
Watching a sheep rot,
Sunlight glistening
On it’s guts,
Maggots and flies
Taking things slowly,
Finishing death’s routine.
There’s a storm brewing,
Confused cows
Are circling the fields,
Light tries to shine through
And I’m waiting for the trees
To bend in patterns
And let the heat
From the last rays of sun
Catch me in the eyes
And show me the tears
I’ve been searching for.
A friend has gone,
Deep into the woods
And I will never ever
See him again.
He had nicknames for me
Only he would use,
He was bright like the daybreak
And wise like the night,
He has left,
He is gone.
There were comprehensive
Shock tactics
Coming from the minds
Of wizened slaves,
There was a dust dance
In a quarry,
A cacophony
Of mess and squeals,
There was an anger
In the midnight air,
A plan to take the leaders lives
With a storm cloud of violent disease,
You just ate biscuits.
She came to me
Like an estranged wife,
A little fragile,
Half a head filled with bile.
She talked about independence,
Indian recipes
And solitude,
Left occasional compliments
With the hope of return
And smiled
Like her mouth
Was on fire.
She spent hours
Playing half songs
On a synthesiser
She paid too much for
And shivered
When she heard foxes
Cry out late at night.
Her ways were intriguing
Like roadkill,
Her breath was as sweet
As her sweat,
But when it came time
To hold her
She caved in like sponge,
Returning to glory
As soon as I’d gone.
I awake and the morning
Has not yet met your eyes,
Beauty holds its stillness,
Silence keeps its style.
The day has split its yellow
But it’s resting at your feet
And the light is slowly shimmering
In patterns sat unique.
Moments come from nothing,
A dawn that wants to scheme,
A golden glow that paints the room
And swims between our dreams.
Slacker Shack
Dunstan Carter : Poetry 