The Holy Giggle

Christ,

nailed flesh upon that wood,

what is it you prove?

What, really, is your rejection?

Is that a giggle you just gave?

Old friend,

silent master,

aloof papa,

do you teach of Heaven,

of Hell 

or of laughter?

Christ,

you cheeky cunt,

I'm starting to see the smile on your lips,

the glint in your eye

there on your dangling flesh. 

It's not that you reject the world

per se;

it's more that you refuse to engage at all. 

You conquer Death

by not acknowledging

the temptress of Life.

You absolute player, Christ.

You alpha.

You King of Kings.

Let them mess with your body...

Shit.

I really hear you laughing now

at them,

at me,

at you yourself.

The Holy Giggle, Christ.

I see, I see

the joke of it all.

How we War with Woke

 

The killers won’t kill us.

Not the lot of us.

Hell,

not even one of us.

What kills is trust that truth prevails.

It’s where the heretic burns,

the flames engulfing the crowd.

Do you see?

This ain’t a war between smart and dumb

or even right and wrong.

No,

it’s fought between blood

and bloodless

where blood strains to fill the veins

of the empty.

Everybody wins

or everybody

loses.

Friend

There’s a freedom in this loneliness,

a friend that’s on this road,

a woman in this heartache

and flesh upon this bone.

 

I did a hundred clicks today.

I know not where I aim.

I’ve given up the arrow

and scrubbed away my name.

 

So, really, there is nothing left

and girls are quick to flee:

no longer lining up like crowds

for the hero that was me.

 

Me, the man that can’t resist

the highway and it’s kin.

Me, the man that’s hungry

and hasn’t had a win.

 

And, really, when it comes to truth,

I’m just as far away.

But I’ll miss this life when I tire out

and I’ll wish it back some day. 

 

 

 

 

 

Duckling

Kalbarri during winter

and we're boxing in a duckling.

The thing's lost. 

Fuck.

There they go: my nerves. Breaking, weeping

as the thing

trips

on its little legs,

bum up and panic-stricken.

Tiny chirps so completely helpless

they're beautiful:

fear minus ego.

We're only trying to help 

return it home.

We swoop on its fall 

and scoop it up

- the thing more fragile than snow.

It lifts its little head in terror,

desperate for family,

awaiting the blow

or the crushing teeth

but we set it down where we see it's safe again. 

My arched back and cocky smile, 

my hardness of spirit,

the layers of cement 

laid down

for all tomorrows:

gone. All gone. Ruptured.

Fuck you god.

Why do lost little ducklings

have to suffer

on their little legs?

Or maybe

that there

was Christ with the Cross, 

bum up,

tripped over the shocking weight

of total innocence,

nothing left

but the faculty

to humble the everything else.

But not for want of death

 

I forge a path along the sandstone void,

bound for Eagle Gorge,

hidden from the would-be scowls of the ranger,

hidden from the office matriarch

that tucks us in

to suffocation,

claiming the little space still left. 

 

One misstep 

means savage end

 

and yet

 

I'm drawn in

like asteroids hurtling by mad pulls

to mad fates

- I want that sea to have me,

to take me under its murderous rage,

to break my neck against the

beasts

of its underworld.

 

But not for want of death.

Instead, for want of life which,

in turn,

draws me back from the gorgeous brutality.

 

In 1629,

long before arrival out east,

way out here - out west -

a couple of mutineers

stood marooned.

They the original Euros to Oz

- out of horror though, not choice;

doomed men of the Batavia. 

Centuries on,

I watch the sea

barrel

into land

with such a wild, brutal, ancient viciousness

that I sense

it itself lays down its history

without mercy,

without a hint of compromise.

Goodbye, young Adelaide

 

Goodbye, young Adelaide,

cradle of the youth

of my psychosis. 

Goodbye.

You're unable to come on the subsequent journey. 

I renounce you, Adelaide.

In love.

Don't be offended.

I renounce myself as well.

We stand upon a mighty riverbank

but here I cross.

I have some room for cherished friendships,

for mother,

for father somehow.

Yet that is all.

Here we bid farewell. 

Those parties and dinners and gossip,

that thirst for the women and the drink and some

centre of some stage:

I just can't dance those dances anymore. 

They're all so tiresome

and growing tragic.

What life? Where?

I've loved you, Adelaide,

but I'm on my way to kill the thing within. 

Perhaps one can't succeed. 

Many have tried

and I get that this is nothing new.

But knowing I'll fail

is not so crucial 

as knowing I'm trying.

I'm fifty days without ejaculation.

I'm renouncing women

on the fly.

It's all a part of it.

Do you understand, young Adelaide?

You just can't join me now.

I can't extrapolate further.

I'd only be lying

and I'm ignorant of the rest of the story

anyhow. 

Do you know the power

in hearing the sex

of the woman camped adjacent

and simply letting your member stand

ignored by stoic hands?

Stirring once,

plugging your ears

and letting your member fall,

do you know the power of turning from Satan?

Do you understand, young Adelaide?

I'm going crazy on purpose.

You'd only get in the way.

I rest in my tent by Argyle,

hearing the freak show.

They talk of beautiful views

and available work.

I understand it less and less.

I only wish to go to the waters.

I only wish to be baptized again

and again. 

Does God exist?

Does it matter?

Look, goodbye young Adelaide.

I'm already on the other side

in any case. 

Except

 

Ages end and empires fall.

Yet it's our own we imagine

might last forever.

It's the thing that stays in place

that the storm within us

assumes might end:

the world as a whole.

From the Book of Revelation

to the Mantra of Climate Change,

the hyper heart

just about

begs the world to blow.

It won't.

There's really not that much to save

except the heart itself.