Anthony Dawson

Early morning changes my colour,
Weakens my magnet for you to escape into sleep
I asked the girl in the corridor if she was a
Morning bird, she smiled then floated into the
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Scanitly clad women roam the floors of nighclubs, hotels;
Expose flesh on the beach, materialize the lust in men.
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Your shanty sits on a hill,

above filth below will.
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Clouds are my moving treasure, free, abundant, looming

as grey death or simply washing clean a slate of trials.
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Noises in the night under dark cloud skies

That keep missing the moon.
...

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You!

I was just dreaming of you.
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Resist the temptation to yell
as this expression gets under my skin;
I shudder and my soul is disturbed.
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I can't yet hear the grind of the factory
I have just woken and my heart is racing
My heart is a racing fuse
Today I begin life as someone else
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Your face retains the remnants of yesterday
Your clothes and dwelling all entered this passage through yesterday
Yesterday is etched in your love
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The quarry
A dangerous place
Scab on the earth
An operation of take
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At least tomorrow I can sleep,

ignore the rapid fury of open eyes rasping my presence.
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Every morning a woman comes and hand picks her rubbish -

Gems discarded by the elite of the city.
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Cream laden valleys
Antarctic canyons and elevations
Whitest milk from the greenest fields;
Impossible neutrality
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A woman stands illuminated by a single light,

shivers in a capsule as the cold night bites her ankles,
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Again I enter where I have never been
Through the passage and into the world I create
What I create will again conceive a different tomorrow
A want of the better, and more of the unknown
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Into the night the revellers dig
Not for gems or liquid power, comfort in another mouth;
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A man I met
who likes the odd drink
Told me to believe only half of what I see and
nothing of what I read
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Creating a horse with the floating clouds.
Upward vision into the path of super-jets.
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Wine;

my stained teeth,
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