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David McLean Mathews

Rookie - 20 Points (Colac, Australia)

Song of Every Sphere


i sit on my roof watch the alien birds fly wine and treats to a nest in the Japanese maple ~ i understand the valley breeze puffing up my nose ~ its hook reserved for flicking raindrops when the blackcloud dumps ~ even though the iron is crowned n hot the bluerim of earth absorbs my watching skin ~ a hundred ks in every direction filled with the same remorse ~ at least i feel optimism aloft in the passing space of craft dipping their wings in prayer spraying their fueload over a greasy sponge ~ in time and beyond i crawl into the solitude of a hailstone its prismatic qualities give me hope and the sparkle of crushing colour blinds me for an instant ~ blind to love and hate ~ blind to questions or answers ~ blind to suffering and happiness ~ a vast crunching quality invisible ~ ive been here before ~ over Baluchistan ~ remember ~ 500 metres above the truck stealing past a hotstone revolutionary jail ~ 40 degrees in the shade of the birch ~ the goat brigade camelling in the ditch beside the road ~ i flying perched in the shotgun tower the reigns in my hand a teatowel bandanna over my mouth my guts in turmoil as they are now ~ subversive inertia ~ i dont give a stuff about barrel turns or 4g divebombing ~ pulling out at the last minute my juices erupting over legs bellies beds ~ a bunch of violets growing in the space between reality and compulsive abrasion ~ the hailstone hurts my peripherals and i kick out ~ my flanks glisten with sweat ~ pump blood over the bluerim tide ~ anger frustration impatience ~ ego frail as my flummery body whirlpools through sky ~ i crane my neck to get a better glimpse of the browngreen curtain greeting me like a prodigal friend ~ it impacts on my brain with the beatitude of crushed violets and i compact into the size of a small pod ~ my toe on my tongue ~ my right hemisphere happy propped against a shrub drawing in the dirt a pattern of the next 2 million years ~ the next poetica ~ the next big bang ~ the earth tastes sweet flakey ~ my toe digs a space for my tongue to slide amongst the roots of simulation ~ tranquillity suppressed only by a lack of light ~ not that it matters ~ i have the violets close by ~ they provide sustenance ~ knowledge ~ in a vacuum i puncture the bluerim edge and retender my garden ~ my left hemisphere is full and heavy ~ i feel lopsided stretch and survey the terrain of my resurrection ~ i am comfortable stretch again ~ this time to my angling perch ~ it has rained in my absence and the roof steams as I sink into the ferrous canopy.

(Leichhardt, Sydney,1994)

Submitted: Saturday, March 15, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Topic of this poem: self


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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Song of any morning waters blue with dream
(Jack Kerouac, 'Caritas')

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