Your words
Are like muesli
To the lips
Of shivering
Earthquake victims.
Your actions,
The pure faith
Of a tranquilised
Church organ player,
All passion
And trembling
Christ thoughts.
Your history
Is a myriad
Of slightly chipped
Gravestones
From an old story cemetery,
All dust yellow memoirs
And lickety-spilts.
Your church
Is a troubling place.
They forgot
They’d created
Killing machines,
Emotionless mongrels
Armed with loop-holes
And gunfire,
All broken
And glass eyed,
Youths steady growling,
In shadows surrounding
The piled flesh
And silence,
Secrets
And whispering
Schemes.
Dreams
Like explosions.
These fascists,
These wolves,
The kind who keep
Spittle on their teeth
And piss in the shadows
All cross-eyed.
We sing in the hope
Our words
Will disease you.
These fascists,
These wolves,
All intellectual growls
And simmering blood lust,
The kind that fall
Into routines of hatred
And clamp claws
To their pitiful
Offspring.
We sing with a melody
Best kept in trees,
And soon we will dance
On your bones.
When the moon cries its silver
Or the sun spreads its smile,
It’s you in my mind,
You in the daydreams
That creeps across my face.
To lose you to circumstance,
New demons or sadness
Would unplug my heart;
We have the world at our feet,
Why push it onto our shoulders?
Why pull the clouds to our eyes?
I want to crown you on hilltops
And dance through the years,
Spinning with pleasure
And saluting the magpies,
Tasting the raindrops
And skipping round ladders,
We were born to weave wonder,
Please stay in my smile,
These heartbeats I cherish
Could stretch out for miles.
I hope you’re reading this now.
I erased all paths to your door,
Forgot conversations and wallowed.
I followed your wishes
And counted to ten.
I counted to twenty
And then back again.
None of it worked
And now I’m here
In this bottle,
I drunk all its contents
And wrote this note
With my tears.
Every thought wished
Is alive in this headache
And my heart isn’t broken
It’s just sick of my mouth.
Slacker Shack
Dunstan Carter : Poetry 