stones go to the beach and find me some stones run to the bike and hitch yourself to the stones

arch the last line of the sunset sky curve it towards you and end-stretch the dripping light of sky swung through jumping roos - and grate past dark gums washed into the roo frontier adrift on the muddy avenue embassy neighbouring cache of late winter wave breaks endlessly pulsating white - then grab a sea vowel rake the meadow of a million moon-locked tons absolute tidal sounds deep in the mist of first stars communion of bats prismatic data ending under night elsewhere

flawed biogeographical emotionscape #1 myth is speech stolen and restored (roland barthes) and time is (just) hanging on the x-axis which brings me to nutmeg and that i love pine nuts and cumin yknow, for their wintry atmosphere the burden of history and the northern hemisphere notice the roar of sea columns of sound sailing away from their moorings a lesson for us if we knew it repeat this phrase as the idea is sensitive to feeling not insight the boarding pass of the breath of wind, simple shadows in a parenthesis of every dawn and well, flaws in kinship that like the invisible covert pall of clouds and fading cloud shadow enveloping the situation in falling light and encumbering the leftovers of sky diminishing into the contradiction of cruel stars and the herb moon diminish into the immutable grace of silence.

confessions of the winds of spring i hear you gazing at the astral sky and i see your heart mocking the darkness and i know that you are years away from home i come to you in your puzzling outpost and i move through your sector of this galaxy and i know that you are provisional and alone i am of the routines of nature, remember i have traveled great distances i come with no intention of resting and i am a weapon of mass destruction i herald climate change to you, biped i am the thorn of all your desires and i am the knot that will not untie and i offer grace to the precipitation of the skyway and i see you sleeping and sleep-thinking and i punch through you and tickle your vision i come song-like like humus comes animating out of the earth and i know no mercy and i fear no evil, ha! i merely am i merely am merely moving through the mere world

frontier hypothesis, (gendered beachcomber perspective) the stone was a particular non-metallic mineral matter and the stone was not shaped for a purpose it was lying on the edge of a line of the outstretched waveprints at 2:30pm of the shifting tide so what matters, she thought, about this matter doesnt matter and she moved her mind into the comparative mode compared the waves pull and push to that of the railway the shifting of cargo and human traffic, back and forth, pulled by kinship and pushed by distrust the lack of an anchor is not a concern she thought of the waves and their unstillness as the ultimate frontier well, one that needs no flag no flag to orient itself, no chrysalis in which to transform: the frontier of the transference of energy, she said to herself the wind wave that is governed by physics, the shoaling and refraction, and perhaps the breaking is unlike me, she thought; and like me, she thought, the wave is generated and grown propagates and decays like cities, she thought, like nations, disciplines in universities, like railway networks, like movements in art

hyphen quiet filigree and then there is melbourne: port phillip bay, bass strait, the tasman sea oceania's desert riverina the period of southeastern resting caramel chemical soil mechanics washing night's tapissery tangerine light and that's where you are in secret and i'm locked in into diaspora suns and consequence of moons. port campbell, cape liptrap, frankston, colac, traralgon, warragul, wonthaggi, too, queenscliff, hastings, baw baw and ararat; the imagined settlements we make, pealing into distance, desert and stars, horse shadows in oil-violet pools of dusk: the heart's drum roll and the promise of strangers.

mount eden the fifth try to imagine a city with two harbours (siblings or lovers) stretching into the suburbs sleep: crippled octopus metropolis crackered city to sing of blitzing pockets firework veined phosphorous lightning with far off fisher-folk morning-star guided and reigned by near-whispering November trade winds while every block wades into the momentous musical mystery of sea-torn sparkling southern-hemisphere halos under and above the watery Auckland moon

an imagined future geography probably near low, snow covered houses on an endless winding street, doors closed, the illusion of leading somewhere is, in a corner of time, a smoky hovel, with bearded men soaking in the washtub and a dying candle and guestless moon suggesting wet boots on the floor, a coachman's discarded black loaf. there is a church in this village under shadow only because there is a church square; a narrow place where all is reduced to reference and knowledge is passed in whispers. here, one can only imagine things that are not the sum of experience: that settlement is possible from the present state; from the bitterness of lemons, perhaps, infinite bitterness.

while waiting for my visa seat yourself sultanically among the moons of Saturn, cross the galaxy with eyes to this encompassed honeycomb finality: a cloistered embrace of internal tidemarks, winds, and poles, the environing blue crystal ball of inland souls. it sneaks and nudges in silver rushes a maddening dandelion cajoling grace; a wild lawned island lost laboratory in the shadows and steppes of space. detect the morning sirens call, the rhymes in history, the embedded, half-hidden cushion of crocuses spring cartography abundant in meadows and the clocks of waste, moving across the world on horses: hourly and nightly in the still-dark stairs silently shipwrecked and making dry the sea-fog-wet marines; saddling up, bracing lives, in earths tree-house-net of dreams.