The Lucubratory Collaboratory » Poetry Sat, 01 Mar 2014 11:57:01 +0000 en-US hourly 1 11.7.2013 Sat, 24 Aug 2013 11:56:46 +0000 since you left I have had to reshape my idea of what love is


love used to be coupled in your hands
between your arms
chest to crumpled cheek
bone to rib cage bone


love used to be chocolate smeared bodies
showers together
two lives that didn’t quite fit
but we made it anyway


soon I’ll be with someone new
someone I can’t dream up now
soon their hands will be my love
their eyes on mine
over a crowded room
hands to hip bone bend
will mean




but the trick is
changing what love means
without forgetting what it once meant


I don’t want to forget
that love once meant


and that to you
love once meant

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Seafarer Sat, 24 Aug 2013 11:53:54 +0000 closed gate
lost seafarer
ocean rises
lost seafarer
returns home
a child runs

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Computers Sat, 10 Aug 2013 11:47:53 +0000 Computers
are boxes
hollow with air
and other things
that blink but
it’s the box of air
that’s mainly there cos
computers are boxes of magic
making the intangible
into our every day
and everyone knows
that magic
comes from thin air
or from a box

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Untitled Tue, 06 Aug 2013 09:20:43 +0000 I am a mobile hotspot
Of happiness. I want to share
My wireless joy
With everyone in this
Big cruel city.

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Our Future Tue, 30 Jul 2013 09:22:40 +0000 so I said, we go together now

in this clapped out car

with the hand break off

drinking gin from a jar

down down round round


I met him in Western Australia and the sunset over the ocean didn’t matter because he was looking at me with a pair of fluorescent ideas, before I knew it we jumped the festival fence where we danced with bare feet, where we danced with a cigarette in one hand, and our time for each other in the other


we go together now

in this clapped out car

with the seatbelt off

drinking time from a

down down round round


in the morning the sun shone onto our dream stained mattress  and he told me that he flies out the next day to one of the mining towns out Karratha way where death smells like watered down dust and loneliness is the only home you’ve got


he drives the trucks there

and he drives them in circles

down down, round round


and I told him it was a choice but he asked me what sort of choice it is when you’re nineteen and alone, hated school, Mum’s on the pokies, and they’re paying $120 grand a year. You’ve never seen that kind of money in your life.


but four weeks on and one week off isn’t enough time for a love story, not when you run out of things to talk about because the rocks don’t change, the circles don’t change, the times don’t change, but somehow the love does


before he knew it he was thirty

he realised he never had time to love anyone

because he spent eleven years

driving rocks around in circles

round round down down

originally published in Burley Issue 3 2012
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Birdwatcher Tue, 30 Jul 2013 09:19:03 +0000 this is the story of a birdwatcher
stuck in the city
because he’s too damn frail and old and broken to leave
the skyscrapers are built around him
cage him
all he could see are snippets of sky in this unfamiliar place
where even the stars seem rearranged


so now he sits atop high-rise balcony
waiting for a breathtaking bird to appear
gazing out over the concrete canopy
and he’s been waiting for years
yeh, he’s been waiting for years


stay with me now, because his moment is coming
he’s feeling it now, because his temples are drumming
his ear drums are humming
the rising sound is quickly becoming
a surging, emerging, converging beat
urging up from the soul of the earth to his feet
from his feet to his heart to his eyes complete


and he sees
the bird of his dreams
fly across the skyline
on blue shimmering wings
with a call that will chill you
like the dawn wind


and he knows that her feathers
are holding his heart together
and in this moment
he will watch her forever


but even as she rises she is falling
even as she sings she is crying
deep in her heart she is calling / out
to those dreaming and lying


and its not so much that he hears it in his ears
but feels the meaning in his mind
and her cry sets him free
from his cage inside


she says
don’t be afraid
when the stars rearrange
in this world we will change, be remade
so don’t be afraid when the stars rearrange
you don’t need to be saved
you will be remade
don’t be afraid,
yeh, don’t be afraid


and with that final call

he sees her shimmering wings collapse

her slender neck does crack

and she falls

leaving empty air again


he runs to her


he finds her caught a stormwater drain

oil slick in her wings fuels his dismay

cigarette butts stain her shimmering feathers

and her wingtips rise and fall with the waves


he holds her broken body in his hands

while he holds her echo in his mind

don’t be afraid

when the stars rearrange

yeh, don’t be afraid

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I Have Been Learning About People Mon, 03 Jun 2013 09:16:33 +0000 I have been learning
About people. She
Flicks a flicker of cigarette
Into the golden air like
She doesn’t mind that she might
Set the sky alight.


I have been learning
That people are like rowboats
Pressed together at low tide
Rubbing salty flanks with each
Rolling wave, finding where
The joints are weakest,
Where they can let
The sea into the soul.


I have been learning
That people are not fragile
Like glass; they are fragile
Like language
And mean as many things
As there are synonyms
In the stars
And are as distant
And close
And require as much patience
And time
As the stars.


I have been learning
That I will never stop learning
About people
But perhaps I will understand people
Like the sea understands
The belly of the rowboat
And the night understands
The shouting stars
And the glass understands
The endless desire of gravity.


Here are my joints. Here:
I am salt and readiness,
Let the sea into my soul.

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This Blue Earth Planet Fri, 03 May 2013 09:12:34 +0000 The things we play with on the surface of this blue earth planet
Are crystal rocks for looking through
Are melted sand-glass jars for holding liquids in
Are fermenting fruits and clocks for counting cogs
and each others’ rhythms and tunes.
Some times we can catch hold of these knots of existence,
see them sewn into a line of a song
a glance of an eye, a smile or stare.


Hold them to your chest and let them beat there against you
pump their tune, through your blood and through your body,
let them move the single cells inside you who organise themselves
into organs and thoughts for the ringing of bells.
Hold these tunes to your ear, press the glass jar and thin tin lid
close enough to listen to this whirling, suspended
in this moment, that we all are alive enough to hear.


The things we play with on the surface of this blue earth planet
Are threaded thoughts for weaving together words and worlds
about being creatures subject to believing and sleeping,
finding and needing, destroying and keeping.
The things we play with on the surface of this blue earth planet
Are molecules for breathing in and eating.
We take up, recreate, discover, alter, change and make space
on the surface of this sphere
all the time wondering about the cogs of ourselves,
and the keys of the others who inhabit this blue earth planet.

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boston marathon bombing Wed, 17 Apr 2013 09:12:05 +0000 Sometime
In the year
(Every year)


In the spring
When the trees
Mist green


Or late summer
When the trucks
Leave red dust
On the rails
Of footpaths


We learn words
That go together
Holding hands
Like children do:


nine eleven
fukushima explosion
tube bombing
boxing day tsunami
bali bombing
canberra bushfires


My childhood is
Carved with them
The memory
Of first hearing


Those words
Together like
A child being born


boston marathon bombing


Is another to add
To my memory


The dates fade
And faces and the
Places you sat
When you found out
How your legs
Were folded and
Who you were
In love with but


The words
In the manner
Of words
Carved into us


Like nursery rhymes
And fairy tales
Like an eight year old’s
Life spread across a street;


When we are altzheimers
And bones
We will remember
And sing
Under our breaths


boston marathon bombing
canberra bushfires
bali bombing
boxing day tsunami
tube bombing
fukushima explosion
nine eleven.

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Woden, after work Sun, 07 Apr 2013 09:11:33 +0000 I like to run through
Woden Bus interchange
after work
tired legs flying past commuters and highschool kids
freed from a librarian’s subdued decorum
leaping strides down the hill
to the city-bound 300
that is just about to leave
or running just for this
waiting bus or not
passing the tangled shopping trolleys
and cigarette stained cement
people made inert by timetables
stillness their tithe
for moving other places
blood pumping to my thumping feet
I’ve made my pact with gravity
Woden Bus Interchange is best taken at a run

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