of water and touch

she says she wants something solid and hard and i look down at my penis pressing into the cheek of her buttocks, both red from heat of water and touch. the width of her body is the length of my penis and i wonder at this. i wonder at this and i wonder at the water, the heat of the water, the heat of both the water and her touch, and the firmness of my penis pressed into her skin.


in a shower cubicle we are beneath the hot water and she is naked back in front of me and i can only see the water rushing over her skin and her ass and the blood rushing into my penis and the hardness coming and the growth coming and the length and heavy width coming and i am hard now as i watch the water rushing over her skin and oh, her ass.

i hear a tap dripping

i hear a tap dripping and my lover breathing heavy sobs and the cold is still ice layered thin and shaved light upon my skin, O prickled winter of outside, you make our love freeze over!
through clouds of wintered breath my lover ran ahead, feet tapping on the glistening orange wet of streetlight-lit footpath and O there swayn from above, drizzle gently layed upon her hair, bouncing with her step. we were to write a script at home, in warmth and love, but beneath bare blanket stripped of cover my lover lie, breathing heavy sobs of prickled winter cold, and beside her i write:

O love, and wintered us - are we without light upon our skin?

anal, boy, cum

and suddenly i remember a fillum i once watched on abc with priests and cock-sucking children caressing the moonlight-white asses of older boys with their cotton-soft fingertips clawed as tent pegs pitch a tent. their throats are filled. a cherokee smoke signal stains the night sky and the older boys comb cum through the unwashed hair of the cock-sucking children, their own pearly liquid sticking between finger sticks and hair grass. white teeth show through smiles as the older boys trudge back towards the manor with a pleasant sensation of lightness, and power. white blood was spilled tonight.

it exists as sound and memory

yes here i was a girl-born-boy, and yes i here became golden loin to all -- sigh loud, dream-eye; to love my lust was little whim, though where i sleep - in water - i had yet drown nor swam, afloat beneath this closed-eye sky. oh wink moon smile, to spinning us below, drinking this air of cold dark and merged life around, elbows linked arm-to-arm and ears covered by fire hair, oh bright flurry here amongst eve and her shadow - where are we, we are ungraspable colour, and this slow-spun fast ignites the air. where are we, my lover, but not here.

we are atop the water, a small pebble-littered stream of which we cockle with our fingers and feet and occasionally drown in. each kiss is a breath stretched metres abroad on a frozen winter morn, smoke in the valley, oh black darkness you became. we are windfall though roll no further, so creep here, quiet, through goosebumped skin and wonder upon the sky, clear-eyed and beautiful, whispered wind stirring the embers of our wispy fire-hair, where bright of this night here sighs our winter song.

oh my sky-breath-sound, my implosive love, we are nestled leaves and us - soft silence hidden by trees and nearby river, or tip-toed stream through lush valley where thigh-high green grass grows and grows and traces the cracked dry ravines of our skin.

rampant were her days by the sea

rampant were her days by the sea
oh, calm blue, deep blue, sea
a sand quilt, soft over her hands
and feet, hands and feet beneath

oh rampant were her days by the sea;
sun above, an african drum, chewing
kanna through the day to help her
breathe, soft breath, slowly

kanna by the sea, a yellow
brightly burning - rampant by
the sea in days turned weeks
of yellow breath and sun
and red anger, with eyes asleep

rampant were her days by the sea

killing an arab

1.


Andy was an avid space rock collector. His brother Jack enjoyed books. For their father, Saturdays always began with two-up at the casino.


“Heads!”


And the casino would come alive. Few voices at this time of morn, for most punters have already spent the remainder of both their energy and their money. Fatigue yells out from those who have not yet had sleep in dark beshadowed circles that hang from beneath their eyes. Cola coloured skin surrounds the two-up table and here the father laughs and collects his winnings. Four black chips and we are at home again as a cooking tray is removed from the oven grill by Jack and Andy’s mother. Her husband – their father – is leaning against the kitchen bench, about to ask a question. A fly passes from one spot to another spot on the kitchen window, and so now, their mother begins:


“Andy wants Jack to take him to the beach to look for space rocks.”


“And?”


“Well, I don’t think he should go. He’s too young. They both are. They’ll break something. Too much open space. And that water – there’s just so much of it. What if they drown?”


“Let him take the boy, miracles happen to those who will let them.”


At a beach. Andy paces slowly along the washy-white shore with his head down and eyes verdantly searching for space rocks. Jack sits upon a towel atop a sand dune and reads a book on Ecology.


‘Andy? I’m not quite sure I understand this. Listen – “...until finally two priests wearing leather jackets and black berets overpower him.”’


From the beach, Andy pauses in his pacing and looks up to Jack.


‘Hmm...Maybe its something about religion. You know, like, maybe they mean, like, religion is basically a tyranteous, all-encompassing dictatorial rebel force. I don’t know.’ Jack nods slowly, considering Andy’s comment. And Andy again,‘Why, what’s that bit about?’


‘Um, I’m not too sure. Something about the biological movements of certain ecotypes within controlled cultures over the past two-thousand years. Its sort of interesting. Quite unnatural though - which is ironic, really.’


Andy nods non-chalantly and continues pacing along the shore, searching for space rocks. Jack turns the page of his book as Andy hunches over a small rock glistening in the sun. It is almost the size of his fist when clenched. The clouds move slowly overhead and the shore laps at his feet.


**


A warm southerly sleepwalks past with outstretched fingers trailing softly over the water surface. The sky is blue smeared white. They, the two, are beneath the water, submerged; enveloped. A mirage of voice and bubbles.


“Somewhere is somewhere for some.”


“But nowhere for most.”

oh wretched i, of future see

what i dislike most and know i
will later miss, is how i am
describing my inability to articulate.

like this,
in simple innocence