Fiona Hile

Riding on such instruments as a large aluminium
hemisphere, syndicated falconry of gifts and predilections
propose dilutions of solemn music played through ploughs
of lidding ink and fare renderings of infinite tapping bells.
...

It's not as if they speak to us of some tequila
moonscape lost to sense, though the telepathy
of our own hand-coded secrets might. Python
Technology integrates our systems more
...

We met at the end of the party
when all the lights were fouled
with drink and even the self-titled
Ouzo Animal was yawning in protest
...

Growling and erudite in the crucible
of every situation is doing you channeling
circadian remnants of ‘must I reject
everything You are?' like ‘I used to
...

Sitting with your back to the elm-filled window,
laked extract of ripe Buckthorn berries
retro-teaching skipping girl how to skip,
you applaud the absence of Mondrian Green.
...

Focus on the taxidermied light,
the quarked vehemence of splayed negation,
to rags, your britches, seeping glib intent,
sight catastrophic, given to seizures.
The curlicue scent has not the mother in it.
The fall of romance, the hold of the tender new,
programs aloft, every nerve to shudder:
ghosting monitions of the incomplete.
Either will the aching swells, apart from bliss.
Coordinates of favor, hip neath fiber strip follicle
sheath of slip chord parent display. Sensitized gift wagon
fern entrenched, the halo of the nation is the caul-throated
blood of hench, rosella'd to the peak of taxonomied childless.
Where your mottled hologram, the feathered monster of the throttled.
Quizzical with the world, am to console, the hope for saplings
edifice disjunction. The dissociated fanfare of motivated loss
entrees the ingredient of dining undertaken. Your teeth the grinder,
your lips the sensitive house. The beds' laments' the reindeers'
horses' dreams' in halves' cameo'd sighs.
...

Growling and erudite in the crucible
of every situation is doing you channeling
circadian remnants of ‘must I reject
everything You are' like ‘I used to
transcribe every syllable of your liquid
bohemia, as if words were the lead singer
from the Drones viewed from every possible.
If it means something to you I can't say I
understand what you're filtering Torrents
of black sand underwiring my silken
jaw taste of Colombia and tripwire panties
with barely a low rider to rub between
the impasse you said, hopefully, but I don't
know, I always thought there'd be more
Bloodshed. Arguing with you is somehow
Delightful, like having your head held
beneath the tenacious skin of a four foot
wading pool when even the chemically
identical of the outer regions of the
chlorinated think you're beautiful and
now that Chrissy Amphlett's gone
what more is there to say?
I thought love was Science Fiction /
until I saw you today
...

Is that you, wandering still, and lonely as the hill's
heist of paspalum in your evening bag? Everything
about you is disappearing, your soft shirt shoulders
shimmying like revolution. I'd call it Platonic but
the evanescence of adventure freed from the every
days of nothing is happening. We make love, get
coffee. Sometimes we clean the sheets. When I
want to think of love, I think of you. And Grass
lands, at 20 cents a stalk. Burning. Out in the
Open, the wolves tearing at your attention, foxing:
"One other thought you should go on living." Two
bob a stalk leads your numberless shadows into my
own dim territory, You Sunless Wonder! Even if it is
better than nothing, even if you don't have to like it.
For one other thinks you should come inside now.
Bring your friends without object, your plutonium
stick. It's late, and everyone else is asleep, quivering
over the inheritance of collicky one-night brides.
Terror. Anxiety. Courage. Justice. "Fidelity severs the
truth of a love from the world."
...

The surf club car park is littered with empty.
Muscle-testing image in the drum roll
tableau of sheets stripped of servitude. ‘Isn't
there just a tiny bit of gravity in outer space?'
The indifferent surf gambles on the negative
gearing of light over sound. Pale ontologies in
multiple horizons reverse fossilized sprays of
ancestral Fred Williams. The sea swallows.
Wet-suited seals snuffle at ruffle-edged skirts.
Your G-string of land, newly frayed and fickle.
‘Why don't the four of us buy that unit over-
looking the ocean?' Your son splinters in the
complex pool. Bone-crack heckling kindergarten
survivalists. You are the view of the surf club car
park. Sky by Yves St Laurent. God love the French
and their sexy accents. Love is assault, you think
he said, or maybe - love is a sought.
...

Sitting with your back to the elm-filled window,
laked extract of ripe Buckthorn berries
retro-teaching skipping girl how to skip,
you applaud the absence of Mondrian Green.

Faulty pylons screeching sparks into the cindering
daylight Semaphores in the first night Purgatory
of the Act One day the child of Dickens new
corridor transitions burn misrecognised in
the vinyl overlays of heliotropic figuration

Fast Green Lake sprays panoptic quietude
in the TEx mEX panoply of bands named after
words: if all of our communications belong
to others and the minimal distance between
your shirt and my shoulder is all we can share

But the cosmic exposition of the passionate two is also
nature itself So the muscles tensed for flensing in the
trigonometry of information fail the test of morning

Stepping out into the molecular heresy of leaves
subjections of signs give play to the dissimulation of danger
What can I do? A goldfish swimming in a room full of skulls is not

indiscernable Outside my office window the throng of voices
Rises up on the paralytic point by point Escapade of natural oblivion,
your voice leaves its name to join the soundtrack of the new world Spring
mist plots a graphic heteronym that I call nature, each leaf distinct as illness
Numbering the pages of a parallel history in which we marry and spend

Mondrian! There isn't a poet alive who would disagree with your conception of nature.
For them, the Sublime is a handle for the grinding of sausages.
Sublation is useful in the construction of powerful individuals.
To be a poet is to hold every opinion, to know that nature does not exist
and to tolerate the impossibility of whole parts. I confess:

The Lilliputian threads of the old ways make me want to lose a limb.
I have tried to be everything and I cannot do it.

stupid permanent estrangement

promises to forget childhood promises in the forging of our new life

In the shrink reduce distinct of Bentham-by-way-of-Burke
our silence is creating new forms of interaction.

Giving in to what you will not be, indifferent personification gasping in the terrified light
Your terminous gaze imposes movement on the move from impotence to impossibility
Flees inductive exposition of the count says An easel is a guillotine

by means of which we exploit image, comparison and
rhythm Ideally, we would have nothing of subjective confidings
Yet, to love poetry is to love not being able

to choose On an intransitive note I think
the light transfigures you as you speak - Lisbon 6am
slip insert desire for describe

Harem skerrick of horse Twice-listed how you become me
Presentations of liquid description annihilate the disperse and leak of thirsting for armature,
the dry pad trickle of foreign Projection Dissembles in the prevaricatory jungle Assembled
incontestate at the frontier: I like your idea of an objectless love

drawing of a tree

Atrium'd windache apocraphies bending situationist branches Fouled by the gold leaf declensions of Eleven shimmering navel oranges descending Incrementally
...

We met at the end of the party
when all the lights were fouled
with drink and even the self-titled
Ouzo Animal was yawning in protest
at the Bacchanalian revel in which
no member is not drunken. I sipped
soda water from a cracked glass,
refrained from removing my jumper
while a twelve-year old Bob Dylan
with a voice like Hank Williams
stood silently in the corner stirring
vinyl motes with his fingertips,
a younger more cherubic version of you,
Prince Valiant or some other slender
sword-bearer infiltrating the childhood
of your celebrated prettiness preparing you
for a lifetime of repetition and inaction
till your appearance in the space between
the bar and our oversexed pinball machine
conjured foxes, chickens and all the abjured
mythologies of early twenty-first century
mating games, obliterating the desire
for friendship that skulks behind the false
advertising of every sexual advance.
It's only men who think that they and women
can't be true, a self-serving dialect delivered
by an absent emperor, your king in waiting,
so charred, so easily bruised. Poor Scorpio
clichés of speech overcome in me
and reinstituted as a kind of structure.
The possibility of being immortal is something
I will have to give up on. Scattered to the pigs
in the rent-free cage conversing in a language
that is not so different from the one you deride.
In which all the worlds tetrahedron and give up
on the cause of the Frisky Mothers of Bullaburra
now entwined, night squad of rabbits waiting to chew
your stumps to cavities in an externalized display
of waking fictions. I decay and suffer a mannish twinge.
The first of the plagiarism dreams reclaims my heart
with false dice. All behaviour is suspicious.
...

Riding on such instruments as a large aluminium
hemisphere, syndicated falconry of gifts and predilections
propose dilutions of solemn music played through ploughs
of lidding ink and fare renderings of infinite tapping bells.
Tyrranised by the fastidious machinations of the filigreed
demotic, I gurgle ‘blatant hatred', caterwaul the demonic
logic of wild horses at the mouth of a raging neddy.

But what if love unfolds with the synchronous
cruelty of your lips, the parameters of unlikely
incisions gelded to private property and the right
to that property? What if I see you from the place
from which you see yourself, otherwise lodged,
the fishbone throat raging or striking against
the other turned to shame? Inequality is a mode
of death. Was there ever a woman who felt
herself attached by a generic marker?

The hostility of a loveless assault casts a vegetable
aura across the timpanic register of your filth,
syndicated. Nostalgia hotwires judicious piecemeal
fabrication. All of your thoughts entwined,
the nexus of a single desiring sing of the mandatory
mast enforcing a lifetime of concealed movement,
held in place by the ache of a portable crush,
your orbital, creaking fixations stupefying the apropos.

Given time, obligations repulse me, become plentiful
and take hold. These are your wander-jaehre,
the creak of wooden steers, the hull of the drop-away
safety lever. This immateriality of the living body
conjures the self outside in the world, the illegality of charm,
harm min., an agonised alterity in flight from the apothecary,
the pleasure of which this song has suddenly become.

Wake your fray, the lanolin is leeching from the wood.
If you want to vanish your lover find a use for the whip
of imperfect probabilities. Assign yourself to a class
in Advanced Dream Logic and give me the day each day
from a different bed. Make yourself that conglomeration
of symptoms that only death can cure. Or lead your frothing
team to the edge of Overflow, arrest the giant hills that distend
the swarming sea, unsettle the necks of your live stockings -
And save me a piece of Wedding Cake Island to feed to the
horses when we give them back their heads.
...

Walking in the country you remember how to write fiction.
Pineapple pines string dirty boulevards of sunlit infinity.
Choosing motion sickness over poetry, sheep seep through the petulant
Watching you gaze into another woman's face / I feel I'll always be /
What she gave up on to secure her father's affection. How to Coincide
with life. If the syntax won't admit us we will have to break it.
Salt and pepper lies. The singular accoutrement of the country-wide.
I am always on your mind. As evidenced by the way songs used to end
with a meaningless flourish and are now just content to trickle.

Handing you the jumper leads inevitably proposes connections -
Like a red phone box in the middle of a paddock, the touch of her fingertips
on your wrist is best forgotten. The way to connect is out of sight just beyond
that hill, or inside the box, beneath the carpet. The grinding loss of a man
with a face like an apple looms over you as you sleep. Old and full of grace
and nodding by the fire. Into this world the hills look smooth from a distance,
the weeds spin silk and stories of genocide. Perhaps I'm not equipped for love,
she thinks, but only for the companionship of unruly affection.
...

Twenty-two days since I've seen the sun
I don't have time to arrange my views
Things happen quickly so I don't remember
you know my name but it's a pile of glasnost
The way you draw yourself up through the song
Giving in to the sick side of sensation
A parody of love when it was half a mantel
Garbled light illuminates a gallows of sorts
And I hear myself speaking in the voice of Mao
‘Something frightening lurks in the song of birds'
...