poeji

poet / enjoys wildlife, forlorn buildings, intimacy, wine & whisky

© liam dewey frost 2011 - 2012

BLOOD LOSS

The words just slip into the ocean
motionless, lumps from my throat
that occupied time and space as I
coughed up the wrong sentences
miscast my judgement, threw around
blood and let it dry up in the sun
until I was anaemic and wandering the dawn
collating platelets and sobbing
as first traffic broke the morning’s held breath.

The highway flooded with sunlight
glowing from great tons of steel;
here I am against the shore, pulling
these thoughts out like anchors from the sea,
here I am watching the ships dock and sink
all at once, all in front of me.

MOON AND BEACH

What can I say with the moon shining in my face?
so I look up, neck craned like it would fly through the sky
one thousand wishes to your warmth, and your aura
the moons halo glowing like a night light for us

children of the dawn, the day, the dark
children of the damned, the slammed, the spark
adults who are politicians, peacemakers or in the dark
peacemaking with the carcuses the moon off-loads

I feel a crate arrive in my docking bay
of life; today is bad luck but tomorrow could’ve been a knife
and I am lucky to stare in your eyes
as my possession’s blow off to become bottles
sunk in the sandy shore of the last night’s beach

after so much struggle, I am a beached whale
comfortable but wriggling slowly back into the sea…

LOOKING AT YOU

When I stole the wattle’s flower’s
shadows and wore them as the moon crescent
shaped wings ‘pon my back, I
found myself sky-wandering the contrast
of river with a falling sun that awoke
possums, owls, fidgets of the starshine.

I visited the darkest vacancy – a hostel of
webbed time and timed webs that fell like
Autumn leaves, I left that place where
clocks chime every second, rattling as though
they were snakes alert to a boot.

When I pulled up a stool, the river
lapped silently towards a never end
the ends pulled backwards into the horizon, and
my eyes fell dormant, the cherubs
shut my lids so I spent time thinking of you:
exuberant with the days tires becoming tyres beneath your
empire of smiles, and I thought
just like a rose opens, as I rose out from sleep this morning
how I couldn’t wait to embrace this.

It was with the landscape that I placed
footsteps like kisses on cheeks, holding
onto blades of grass thinking of your hair
running through my hands like the river
turned amber at sunset as the saunter of raised
creatures goes asunder…

I’m coming for you like a thunderstorm
brewing at the head of a mountain far from
the broken clock that simply reminds you
when things fell from their place, switched off
went dormant, but I am not dormant -
it is the snow that cackles as it melts
transpires upwards, blown left and right
flailing upon the ground, puddling at your feet…

Looking at you, eyes shut looking at you
through the up growth of tendrils of moss
through a pot plant that’s roots slip through the cracks
down through the crown of a tree and the cavern of the ground
from the peak of a tall building where I
have manifested myself as a fig tree
looking at you.

A DOOR IN THE MOON

When I found a door to the Moon
I was birthed in a bouquet of fireflies!
I felt like I was the beating heart of a Sun,

As my skin quivered, I sat down
in lotus with calm lake surrounding me
breathing in I felt at one

with the clouds that drooped below
covering Everest to the ever-slow construction
on backstreet, once I felt like I was at gun.

And alone I conquered the moon’s hills
I didn’t need anyone to hold my hand
or hold my crookest smile in place,

It was a sly feeling, because no-one could see me
being in rapture, being as happy
as one could never show with a face

and spent hours just sitting, just breathing
just understanding a dip
or a tall curve, that gracefully I’d embrace.

When I found the human race again
I remembered all our differences
so I tried my best to get alone,

I hid in the bedroom, but someone knocked
so I hid in the bathroom, but someone knocked
I found out I had to hide in my own

body, but my body had a body clock too
and I felt it ticking, an alarm clock
against my skin forever it roamed.

Now I am one
staring at the moon in solitude
wondering where the door is…

TO THE SUNSET

At 8 o’clock
pearl harvesters come out of their diving gear
on the shore of the skyline, with handfuls
of clam’s treasure; I’m standing there with
my pearly whites, mouth drooped like yawns
poking my eyeball through a lens to try and
find some sort of physical intimacy between
their shining salt-water shale skin
and me, a fish on land…

To the ocean, unto we cyclically
bicycle with hand-woven sails, gliding
between continents and the contents of
each other’s minds -
I’m holding
onto that drop of water that slipped between
the cloud matter and the land, like a kiss
lulled into a peachy analog clocks drumming;
it ticks.

I kick on the silent vagabond within me
living on a planet between Pluto, Tasmania
and a bottle of sun-kissed Coke when it still had
a little bit of cocaine in it.

At 8 o’clock
like a brilliant billion can openers
the sky opens happiness,
suddenly each cloud strikes a pose and is covered
in kingfisher blue
in deep vermillion
in spoiled stains of magenta
haunted by our guiding star, hanging loose behind
a glowing eternity of sky scratchers or sky walkers or…

Tell me when it is time to stop looking
and start to swallow
until nothing but an absence of light
is left.

SUNFLOWERS

There is already a swamp of Dali clocks to encounter;
there is already swan necks entwined, then
bitten by fly-traps and swan songs to be had;
there is already pollen gathered and falling
across the carpet, through the pipes of the vacuum;
there is already hands covered in wedding rings
kitsch tattoos of ‘somebody’ forever
parallel to divorce papers smothered in tears.

For the umpteenth time, I pull out a dead sun flower
some tower above my head, once beaming
no scream to the sun like 4 year old daughters
others dwarves to this life, still toddlering about
before collapsing into the dirt abruptly.

And I plant new seeds, harvesting
a mile to myself, alone as clouds play harps
singing serif lullabies, motivating;
in a ceramic pot, amongst the dirt I push the new seeds
tumultuously rising, a beanstalk
to the heavens so I climb her thorns and look
out to the ocean.

UNTITLED (TO HOLLY)

I can only see the moon in the crescents of your tear drops
as you wake up at 5 am with an open, dry mouth
like an open source of information, raped by quasi-scientists
and journalists alike; I am plagued
by the symmetry that lies in the reflections of our skin cells
just sequins that repeat the same sequence - cloning…

Your clothing is my clothing because
we are prisoner number whatever, taking a walk,
took a tour around the rose bush and woke up
scratched breasts and thighs look up to our eyelids, surprised.
Rise up
because I can’t tell the difference between pond reflection
pondering reflections and pouncing directions
pounding an erection or pouting and directionless
or trying less pounds (both in weight and dollars
and wait), I find myself finding it hard to see much else
but orange powdered sludge like a fibrous dust
and I find myself finding you high waisted pants
just so I can find my soiled hands around your bust.

What is it? 60’s? 50’s?
Let’s buckle up or button up or feel cut up
cut ourselves, slit wrists, kiss and lie in mounds of blankets
until we decide instead: a single poesy planted in a bed of futons
suits us much better - but these days I wear overalls, not suits
so I’m letting my thoughts dreadlock like my hair
but I’m not air locked in dread, or all I can see is red,
I haven’t read in two years and so my brain is like stains from year zero.

I haven’t travelled in time
I think,
I’m sure once there was a stage where my brain looked white -
or maybe pink, just a solid colour but
and slowly as I butt cigars and cigarettes and flat whites
Figaro piccolo highs from nothing but shameful reality
where my fingers have sex with paper cuts
and pens solicit themselves to my palms like a twelve year old Jodie Foster
I foster the curiosity, ‘am I allowed to become a homeless pig
to find my paint and stretch my canvases?’
I stretch my jaw as it is 3:27 in my morning and I have been chewing
sativa resin;
hopefully my saliva resonates with some sort of communal snake tongue.

The devil only exists if you want him to
he’s a gimp locked to the corner of a ceiling
he’s a man dressed in secret service standard uniform and a sign
'the end is near' -
what if my life finishes, and then credits roll, then the screen turns black
and Vaudevillian curtains are drawn (maybe by Matisse)
over my Heaven-less, Hell-less poor existence?
Where are you now holy trinity? Door knocking disciples don’t
ripple a coma or tickle dead persons in the crematorium
and so I finally qualm:

Queen of the Night, let
your starry eyed children gloss over me
because I am no walking lip gloss or accosting piece of toilet paper,
I am evergreen, I am sixteen pockets closer to an imaginable Heaven
I am a blue heathen with a crush on black humor
and I crushed my wings because I know cashed in concussions
caress my feet better than any level of careless dreaming;
I’m not pussy-whipped by Aphrodite
but I am whipped cream syphon pulling spirals around a forgotten man’s woman
and maybe
if you were a dreamer, you’d call this graffiti -
pissing in the wind, a dog pissing on a Kindergarten so everyone knows
I own both the feather and the wretched hammer that un-nailed it.

DEATH IS AN APOLOGY

Death is
an apology
to the cosmos
of carnal life and
carnival death; I’m
skull-fucked by the tide
as it pulls me behind
the curtain, whispering
shivers of slivers of
the truth that always
evades you.
Orpheus
rows silently
as I pull a shawl
over my hair and prepare
myself.
The boat rocks
suddenly
I am lumped into the waves
tasting like a giant bottle of tequila,
I gulp down accidentally
finding myself a dizzy alcove of my headspace
and run away
doggy paddle as Orpheus
moans for me.
Grim stands in a cave on the shore
coal and black diamonds shimmering around him
insects – horse flies, bull ants, maggots –
infatuated by his rotting skin,
over the crushing waves you can still hear their clatter.
My skin
comes numb
like the blood flow
has become appalled
with its own actions, and slowly
I feel my limbs float away
without thought
without pain,
my skin
swims away into the visible depth
breast stroking into the invisible depth
so that all that is left of me is
my skull, my brain, my tongue, my eyeballs…
I wash up on the shore of petal-shaped brimstone
grey as the shawl that still clings to my bone,
Grim picks me up
my jaw chattering
holds me in one hand
and wraps the shawl firmly around my head,
we stare into each other’s eyes
I feel warmth.
Orpheus finally arrives
red eyes from bleeding tears 
and tearing himself
apart.
He comes armed
a knife in his boot
a small uzi made in
China, another knife
in the trenchcoat
an oak green
and shoots at Grim,
he hits my teeth
they fall like precious stones,
he falls and moans
and Grim
says nothing.
But I
don’t care
I am transfixed by his eyes
losing grasp of whether I’m alive,
it does not matter.

I LIKE HONEY

because I know what you look like naked from 360 different angles
and know where the switch to the lights in your bedroom is
(even when it’s pitch black)

because I whispered your name in my sleep
as I kissed my best friend on the face, and got surprised it wasn’t you
three days after we met

because I’ve only known you for barely a fortnight

new love: give me mountains and dams
and beaches to have sex on
and forests to have sex in
and trees and bushes
and plateaus that sweep through my wilderness like a deck of Yankees

give me uzis and rose thorns
so I can shoot a petal’s fall instead of pigeon targets
watch my erection turn to a cactus bloom: it spreads itself open
like a dictionary hunting for it’s own definition

because I know you’ve seen hoochies like me and I’ve seen hoe-bags like you
we’ve passed the sugar, cracked salt and pepper, and spread the butter
and you still want to call me ‘honey’

oozing from my lips
new love: every word I say to you feels like creating a tsunami of honey
words that create a cocoon of honey comb
but you like it sweet

thankfully, I like honey.

COMFY

There’s these lights that go like
fire bugs running across the grass.

Your hair
it gets stuck in my mouth
I love it
when your words
it gets stuck in my mouth.

With you
I wanna roll over
pavlova you on my carpet
so that my forehead gets carpet burns,
with you.

You hold me like I’m a pole
in a ship going to the North Pole
from Poland,
I think you’re cool
that I sit down on a stool
like a beatnik
click my fingers and shape my lips like
an American love heart.

With you
I could fall into
a dark soul/black hole
empty stove
and feel
quiet mousey comfy
me you.

There is always a pupil in your eye
there is always a cornea
or a corner
of your face waiting for me.