wild clean

​

like the larch loses its needles

at the right time

cut away, slice through

and disperse

til it rains

cut into your body

throw it away

your tiny stubble in the bathroom

amongst earrings like islands

in your palm

slice through a sound like a

fish’s throat.

 

--

 

on your approach it is still

waiting

a day of cold noses on the tops

spots tickle our paths and faces

wet wood, movement]

birds, black and white, scatter below and wake

the-day is a warp of to and fro

wet clouds fall down and get pulled

up, over, over.

constant abrasions in cars and hums + thrums

down there on the tarmac

wheels scrape on and on

loud nothings

 

prepare for the wild clean

it can be theatre

it can be domestic

set up + sweep down

with favourite broom

with sunflowers to wear on your chest

with rememberance of a smallness

a sprig of myrtle in her hair

to transform into contentedness in being

 

dust, larch, hair, light

body, base it’s good to be touched

                                                 anew,

since you forgot in the long empty Septembers

when Sydney is new destinations.

 

in the cut hair

in the wild clean

three walkers

tap and tut-tut-tutt

in blackness in reflection

in the view of our self selves

the inside of nothings

sit in darkness in aloneness

the safest place to be

not in arms

of those that love that loose that lose

in caves of shelter and sad

in dark dankness

lit mounds, mosses, branches, lichens

lit by pale cotton that rests on skin

golden and glowing patches

that float slowly this way that

larch sways              gentle-r these days

       sticks and bristles

and confetti shorts flutter intermittent

                                    golden flurries

I fell sick, and sickness spreads through bodies easy

in kisses of nothing

​