The 'Catherine'

is despair; the drop of a sullen
mouth, the ill-fitting suit you have to
wear

"I took one for the team," you laugh, but there's
a hard, barbed truth in
there because

The 'Catherine'
is unfair; the requisite of a shunned
girl, the ill-sitting proof of her
fear.

At the 21st

a photo pops up of
Grandpa
and it is obscene with his
madness

I want to howl
'TAKE IT OFF'
'TURN IT OFF'
'THIS IS TOO MUCH'

but I don't
and it's gone

When She was a Man

she ran on other fuels.

Scanned horizons with another set of
eyes, prized another set of tools;

the boot, the sword.

Her action was as good as her word and
when she was a man she sang a darker
song, a long one, mournful and strong and
she stretched her nerves to the length of her stride.

Split the width of her fear with pride
and plain pursuit,

her sword, her boot

set firmly, yet fleetingly,

at the foot of a hill,
at the side of a sea,
at the edge of a cliff,
at the root of a tree.

Cool, Glassy, Dolly-girl

who smells like lollies and
looks like lies

black hair coiled about a China
face, dazed disdain ingrained
in her brow

flushes of brushed-on rose at
each cheek, lips of split
plumb part reluctantly to tell you

the tedious details

($58 left on your layby)

Atlantic

He is the Sea.
No questions between.
No fury mistaken.
No contamination of state. Of intention.
All pure contemplation.
All father.
All invention.

He is the Sea.
No fear of rejection.
No knowledge withheld.
All death, resurrection, is welcomed. Is done.

He is the Sea.
Is father.
Is son.

~

the land is a tongue

Some Question

Small Woman
puts her shallow footprints
in the shale-coloured sand - wind
winds her long long strands
in its fingers - dark sky
blue beyond grey
as it hinges on twilight - the
lingering sunlight as cold
as a clay tomb.

The Minute
has such room for
change - transformation - sirens
signalling each station of its
cross into night - its
shift - the cold salty lifting of
stars - of the moon

all
held
in the
hands
of some
question.