The theatre

The theater’s on fire, burning down to the ground, and the shadows are all screaming they should get outta town. I mean, it isn’t hard to see they weren’t fit for the job; they’d been out all weekend, getting droopy-eyed with that waitress, that gorgeous blonde, who they’d first met on Monroe only a few weeks ago.

But I bet the fire’s only half of it. There’s been talk on the street, letters circulating that there’s something wrong with the priest; that he’s hung up high on the upper east side in a bath-house that he’s daughters used to clean at night.

They say it’s got something to do with the force: That they stormed the city late one night years ago, leaving nothing behind but half-price shoes and a round trip ticket to Bendigo.

But who knows if it’s true; who knows if we know any of you. We’re just stuck here, watching the fire fight its way into our eyes, lighting up the sky like a flash of lightning in the dark of the night.

We’re just sitting here like a bunch of birds on the fence, staring at the neighbors like we’ve got something to defend. And when the rain settles in and washes the ashes away, we’ll forget it all and wait to see what’s put in the theater’s place. 

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The wheel.

The wine colours your eyes like the blood-stained piece of pine

that you used to batter and beat your dreams.

It hurts as you breath and swallow the deceit

with which you coat every day of your life.

You blame and you curse the people of the earth as if they lived just to bring you down,

when it’s really you that’s smiling while hauling and loading

your body into the back of the hearse.

So, as you shuffle and mutter, forgive the others,

because they’re not here to see how you feel.

Swallow your pride and stop the denial

because it’s you whose really behind the wheel.

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The interchange

I’ve been sitting by the interchange, waiting for my mind to frame

all the dusty photos of my past:

Of the countless empty buildings that never heard the sound of singing,

and only sheltered little men made of glass:

Of schoolyards filled with silence and imaginary admirers

who lined up just hear me say my name,

and of cold, frosty mornings spent listening to the moaning

of people who would never last the day.

I’m still sitting by the interchange, waiting for a face that came

to wake me from the depths of my sleep:

With eyes that shone bright and guided me through the night

to climb mountains that always seemed to steep:

With fiery red hair that lead me from my lair

and took me back to the world I once knew,

and that smiled at me to say “go out and seize the day,

and let them see what it means to be you.”

And so I walk from the interchange, guided by the light that came

and conquered the darkness that I saw,

and I look to my side and see the face that once came to me,

and smile as I head down the road.

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Planting Season

It’s been planting season for a while;

burying seeds in the earth and nurturing them with drips of thought

that constantly rain down from above.

Day by day sitting by their side and feeding them memories

from the many branches of this Life:

Sheltering them from the wind that occasionally forces it’s way through the doors,

and keeping them warm as the frost gathers and summer finally comes to a close.

Then, when the cold clouds have passed and spring erupts in bloom,

they’ll stand tall inside The Garden

and whisper the stories that gathered inside this dusty room.

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Number 48

Take the tram into town and you just might meet

the man who reads the auras of the people in the street.

 

“Sit down beside her,” he’ll say

with a slight smile spread across his face

as he points to the beautiful brunette

with a handbag perched on her lap,

staring out the window

at the city blessed by rain.

 

Beyond his grey-blue eyes

and that warm and honest smile

lie pages and pages, and miles and miles

of textures and ribbons

and little nodes bent in Time.

 

Who knows what they hold,

whether they’re young or whether they’re old,

whether they paint pictures or tell stories,

or whether they offer nothing at all:

 

Somehow it seems nice to think,

whatever the case, he has something to give.

Whether it’s truth, whether they’re dreams,

or whether they’re just some hidden fantasies.

If nothing less, he made me smile

before the bell chimed and signaled my time.

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