Simon Taylor

blunt caws of raven hack the morning open for the sharper melodic procedure of butcherbird on the dripping     hanging carcase black men prefer dreaming while the white men’s dreams are a       coloured a coloured film   over waking eyes American suburbia a slick of oil pouring on the land    a

watch my tongue the dumb land rose clay red shuttered blocks of Moreton Bay in the optimistic gloom in the bright oblivion

No sign of last night’s storm the city sharp as a sheet of die-cut componentary with the suggestion of a merely conditional life.

walk the dog, inside the scene another smaller figure, who has left the island and an even smaller dog tied to an armrest. inside these, waves form on the lazy swell of a sheltered sea— the dog looks at the figure who in his heart has to fit and barely

I feel a tension unlike any I have ever known resistant to description I can only give you images that are vague and far-fetched images I do not expect you will understand, images incapable of resolution ineffective in communicating, and at this point I am reluctant I admit but it