dry sleeping eyes

Dry dock,

on four knees to

the crippled wood —

fractured,

crumbling under

the history of idols.

Prosaic fathers who,

once left,

have returned

in the essence of this

breaking childhood.

Sleep,

the kissing exhausted.
Shaking remnants
of violet aura.
A hum vibration

from the back of the skull —

submerged.

Awaiting the ache,

disturbed only

by the gaping wet.

The curves of a

black demi-god.

Engulfed by dense silence.

The weight sick,

pinning chest to spine,

lead filling lungs.

And the chakra — golden,

faded, losing resolution.

Suffocating

without death.

Eyes,

leaking blue.

The rain leaving,

bitumen dark ocean

holding four feet,

naked and blind.

A luminescence from above —

within reach.

As a million bleed,

orgasms screaming

at the burning sky.

The final desire —

forgotten.

The warm hands leading home.

progress

There is an endless dripping
to the sea,
a soft pain.
The endeavor of a cockroach,
superfluous,
permanent.
The hair, dust, mold and rot.
Eternal antiquity,
untouchable foreign delight.
Engulfed only by progress,
a longing for purpose.
Here there is a structure,
to obey,
to possess,
to acquire.
Drunkenness to conquer,
ideas to develop,
people to love,
movements to succeed,
admiration to be sought,
days to pass.
Something to be done.
Reality smashed
against the a priori
- to exist.
And softly,
toward void,
your darkness sees only new.
Not light.
And yet here,
there are the brown eyes
and soft face
of unconditional being.
Asking nothing,
certain and not afraid.

Godzilla in Mexico by Roberto Bolaño

Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You’d just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
in the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn’t tell you we were on death’s program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn’t be afraid.
When it left, death didn’t even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We’re human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.

the juggernaut

the politics
of elsewhere
schizophrenia
and domination
countless voices
telling me
to buy more
and fuck
white girls
but
all I want
is to find somewhere
to eat my lunch
in peace
and quiet
on a Tuesday
afternoon

this lying deceitful bastard

a dream catcher's
gun control
in secret skin
left to
drift
to the ethereal
but
here
now
is not enough

a
swinger's
styling
blank space
the middle class
nonadventure
idle chatter
a bitter
single cell ego
imaginary
places
asking
you
to
fuck your fist
and change
the course
of this conversation
here
now
is not enough

the good poets
have found god
and given up
the drink
glorified
hype men
of the western front
dirty calls
with
opposable thumbs
spontaneous
humans
skype
fucking
to break
a barrier
and cum
bouncers
bouncing with
exaggerated joy
in a heatwave
skull stomp
chanting for
more
don't you read
orwell
and happiness
is just a
smart
buyer
on the inside
so why not
kill your employer
with 4 leftist factions
and 20
obscure
cowards
trying to write poetry
standing
fucking
the hand
that serves you
with pursed lips
to a
6am wake up
party popper
flag flyer
coffee hit
and
here
now
is not enough

to survive
a reacharound
from the landlord
and mapped
colonial
cross border
jesus
the
refugee
tony
the motherfucker
homosexuals
have more fun
but
you still
send your good vibes
to africa
and palestine
knowing full well
that we are happy
on the inside
two lions
a fearful
executive
forgetful
dope dealer
relentlessly
consuming
the soul
and here
now
i hear
wealthy
american
musicians
chanting for us
to trust
but
it's hard
to
be happy
and break the world
when
you're drunk
not
starving
to death
and
here
now
is not enough

here
now
is not enough

the dead women of Juarez

I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
Every scar a colonial moment.
Privilege cut into our skin.
And every fuck just a fuck.
The history distant,
imagined and dull.
But her eggs aren't well done
and the inheritance won't come
'til she's at least twenty five.
Sulking on the golden teet.
Polite conversation before
the big black man
with a gentle face
and nice smile
slips it in her arse.
And meanwhile
another face,
is buried
beneath men,
violence
and dirt.
Her stomach cut,
tear-ducts fucked,
pissing blood and lime.
A sour taste.
Hidden beneath
the discarded fragments
of industry.
But there is only silence
in illuminated text.
And it is strange
to not have TV.
No room for dessert.
Throat cut,
eyes to god.
Laying in a ditch
while her mother sleeps,
unaware,
dreaming Mexican dreams.
And perhaps there is no difference
between the white woman
disturbing my meal
with inane chatter
and the dead girl
just south of the US border.
But I relate to the dead women of Juarez.
My bones aching with guilt
and my beer getting warm.

anarchists

oppose
a social order
of slavery
a violence within
the walls
buildings
and monitors
connecting us
to nothing
the exploitation
of sunsets
sex
and dreams
the death
of the flies
gathering around
dried blood
the 46 year old man
born muhammad
or joseph
or steve
a junkie
or mechanic
lying still
in the dust
shot or shot up
discarded
an unfathomable distance
from your tv
the eight hours
sitting at a desk
staring into pixels
chatting
rotting in
obesity
anxiety
and depression
anarchists
oppose black
bags
15 million
square kilometres
of plastic
in the pacific
a global military
expenditure
of 1.6 trillion
anarchists
oppose murder
money
lipstick
cell phones
televisions
vibrators
the collars
on children
chained to fences
or walked through malls
anarchists oppose
malls
inane conversation
spectacle
promiscuity
taxes
flags
handguns

monogamy
viagra
government
prozac
celebrity
aropax
SUVs
social networking
states
and porn
for this
anarchists face
repression
discrimination
detention
deportation
ridicule
attack
and gaol
anarchists are
shot
judged
condemned
sacrificed
sold
betrayed
stigmatized
and dishonoured

but anarchists
still
believe

in you