endtime
　
there are not enough flowers and the wolves close in
the baby wakes in an empty house
a splash upon the doorstep and a red shawl flapping
but nobody heard the shot
strands upon the spade that remains unhidden
a plot of earth beneath the pines
the moon comes chanting at the broken gate
the rope puzzles remain unsolved
cicadas sizzling above a war of wheat
sparrows revel in the dirt-bath dust
a television turning the milk upon the bench
toward a slow bold hunter’s nose
and the baby the chanting a red shawl flapping
on the grim slack whip of the line
a racket of carriages passing in the distance
everything gets dragged outside
_
　
mum locks the brothel and stops the clock
some unfasten their hooks and eyes
one picks up a glass then puts it down
and then tries to speak of fashion
there are cigarettes, orchids and beds upstairs
but no one will return to those
there will be no more poses or introductions
still the rules about screaming and tears
the place could have done with a good dusting
she kisses the dolphin on her best maid’s shoulder
there are pills, fans and half smiles
pocket mirrors no one can bear to clip closed
though one keeps fiddling to release herself
her girlfriend staring through the rusted bars
remembering the time she vomited blood
in a wedding dress worth ten polishes
graciously mum takes the clock from the wall
for once nobody wants to face it
we swallow her gifts and without a gag
curtsey like the bomb
_
　
lighting beacons upon the tops of silos
sparrows fall like clods of dirt
we update our blogs according to the contract
and celebrate Christmas for cameras
excluding guns and ammo you look beautiful tonight
dumping bloated livestock into trenches
the sun still wriggling in a radio sky
always the threat of more children
but we never ask how it came to this
how some of us are immune to hanging
we never admit to stabbing dolphins for music
or to dining on the milk of weeds
excluding guns and ammo you look beautiful tonight
you don’t shake when the media comes
can’t we talk about us as we flog the horses
take a stab at life on the beach
tree trunks humming like old transformers
imagine spitting on the city wall or my chest
why is it that babies put dead moths to mouths
the leg irons clean better with ash
excluding guns and ammo you look beautiful tonight
out there the shining bald opinions of men
lighting the beacons ingesting grams of hunger
the clods of dirt the tiny hearts
_
　
it will be welcomed
by those on their knees in driveways
or posing crucified upon the concrete
by those who keep rolling to the nature strip and back
in sleeping bags for sweat or comfort
though warned to be wary of sudden truths
it might be best to paint the house
if Diet Coke is really flame resistant
if wild spinach can block the smoke beneath doors
in case there are snakes or if God be ears
leave some treats upon the steps
permit lovers to slog you harder than the novel
you are writing but can never seem to finish
swallow X but only if you swallow Y
individual results won’t vary
there will be a new dialogue on breast cancer
unexpected and as always short-lived
and the broken hearted who make the most
of dying a little bit inside each day
will finally run through their own fingers
the blue that nothing comes out of
_
　
dawn became so big we didn’t get it
the slow milk of it, the fat swamp of it
the subscription with pictures and everything
the curtain swollen at the open window
the pale wafer upon the tongue
that distant smoke or Lazarus unwinding
award-winning cinema in the making
a landmine beneath a pride of lions
a row boat from a marvelous city
that hauled itself across the telephone wires
upon the birds upon the telephone wires
the good yolk broken over knitted hair
an Alaskan Malamute moulting
a megaton bomber, a bridal train
the open mouth of a child running
and Jesus loved the little children
but there were just so many of them
until in light of what we sang to death
it became our greatest forgetting