Each time a jolt— that wheel of stars that sprawling port this skyline slung with cranes this power-hungry system the faceless window-panes this smoke-drift haze this choking air this scraped and scrappy sky the electric promise of the city and the indifference of break-lights.
Tag: melbourne
Red dust rained from ash-stained skies.
The rusted water puddled in places, and where it puddled it dried into drifts. Sweeps of muddled red dirt from far-off distant deserts lay on every pavement, pooled between the cobblestones, gathered on windowsills and clung to window glass. It haunted the city for weeks, like the echoed calls of phantom desert dogs, prowling with the dry.
Ghost, circa 1882.
Where to, miss?
the air whispered
the horses’ bells peeled by the winds
jingling, the horses ready to leave
I turned my neck a little
to see if they were there—
was I ready for a ride?
—but the driver had already turned away
leaving kicked-up dust
of moon-smoke in his wake.
Devices.
wait
a train passes
quietly whistles
whispers past
wait
in silence latent
another train passes
faster
wait
in mounting silence
with its beauty
latent
silent
gone
wait
in stillness
with its silent beauty potent
fragrant stillness
idly still
wait
and another train passes
and silence once broken
creaks achingly
shrieks
the ugly shriek of morning cockatoos
strewing seeds from the gum-tops
fretfully
shrieking
swooping wide white wings low over streets
with anxious shrieking
and shaking
as another train passes
rumbles
and another train
grumbles
sweeping silver streak
shrieking
creaking on the tracks
rumbles underground
the city groans
achingly
shrieks
the city groans
anxiously
speaks
in silent ugly words
scattered like seed by the morning cockatoos
Trains of Thought.
as another train passes outside
its rumbling vibrates the floor
pouring its energy
into my feet
into my spine
whispers
the city breathes
as another train passes outside
pouring the sorrowful
onto the streets
rumbles
pouring its energy
into my feet
into my spine
and in the city’s breathless silence
the craw of a crow
the ugly morning shriek of cockatoos
soaring
from the tall gums that line the tracks
mast and sails (the shops are ships)
as another train passes outside
whispers
into my feet
into my spine
as another train passes outside
echoes long down the cutting
carries ghosts of memory
flitting past
past
past
as another train passes outside
and thoughts are scattered
like wildflower seeds
and another train passes
diffused
like the broken ripple of water
after a ship has passed through
glinting in the sunlight
as another train passes outside
and light rain-drops titter at the windows
chuckling at the tipsy-pink rose glass
and the rain falls more steadily now
drenching
grows louder
not patter but pour
and a train passes
muffled
whispers
the city weeps
sweeps the dirt from its gutters
runs rivers
ripples down the rose-glass window panes
and a train passes
rumbles
and groans
the city grumbles
and shrieks the ugly shriek of morning cockatoos
and another train passes
whispers
the city breathes
once lulled
now lush
the rain sweeps across the rooftops
runs rivers
down the drain-pipes
tips tips tips
drips
down the chimney-pots
where there’s no wood-smoke
on a wednesday
Found in a Notebook, titled ‘Au Printemps. St Kilda Botanical Gardens. A sunny Tuesday.’
Para-gliders — five of them — loop across the bright, warm blue sky. The day is cloudless, stirred by a slight, light breeze. How far can they see, from up there? A vast stretch of billowing, bloated mass of inhabited land. The ocean; the ships beyond the horizon. What do they see of me? A small, black splodge; an ant on grass, as insignificant as the winged ant that just now alights upon my scribbling page.
On the subject of insects — there are bees about, hovering peacefully above the clusters of yellow daisy-like blooms that sprout from the grass in ragged patches wilted by the sun. The occasional fly goes by my ear.
Another sky-watcher makes his way across the blue; a light plane, mumbling and growling back and forth, the light shining silver on the white body of the plane.
Sunbathing season has begun. The lawns are littered with girls baring themselves to the warm spring sun, so I am not out of company with my cotton bath-sheet to spread upon the grass. Contented-looking babies are wheeled about the gardens by their mothers.
Distant, high-pitched screams come from above, as another para-glider’s chute opens with a strange crackling roar.
The breeze feels layered; it buffets across my skin in alternating, mingling streams of cool, dry, quick air, and pockets of languorous, humid warmth.
Taken from a passage in a notebook, ca. 2012.
I will be happy in this rundown jumble house.
Magical: Day One 