WORD ON THE STREET

WORD ON THE STREET

I have listened to the echo
of the world and its wants
letting it lick me longways
with the fork of its tongue
while I tiptoe between the
tombstones that sprout
misaligned.

I now see clearly
the surrender vines
that have grown fat over
my old reflections despite
some careful choreography
where once I thought to
gamely scale the fence
built so very high around
that amusement park.
No more.

LEOPARD SKIN

Oh yes. My mistake.
Unequivocally. For
ever believing the new
leaf we turned over

could prove to be
even marginally
better than the first. So
our disguises are back.

(My camouflage is
covered in chameleons.
Not that you've even
bothered to notice).

How do I quieten that
voice that implies
or just outright lies,

'You know that thing
you really wanna do?
Well you can if you
only try harder.'

TERMINAL PHILOSOPHY

You needn't think I fall alone.
I have angels and demons
each with their own agenda
and barbed instruments of war.

My host of temptations assembled
that swarm against judgement
roaring and hissing throughout
their constant crash and climb

as we all stagger drunk together
across this playground in our
dance with new replacements
toward another irrelevant dawn

that exposes our branded wings
some leather some feather
soft down far too hard to hide
not that Icarus or I could care

until we are just a smidge
too warm and all our parachutes
and promises dissolve.

THAT'D BE RIGHT

There they go again
the minute my back's turned

those flashy high hopes
cheating on me

with all my murky
disappointments.

CUL DE SAC

In this maze of what's left (past the golden tollbooth
through the smoky haze of laughable martyrdom)

I pick thoughtfully through this (the bones of our broken doll)
with my usual ham fisted decimal incompetence

trying to fit together pieces that I know won’t knit
I can tell they won’t because the whole thing has,
well, started to smell kinda funny

but there was a time back when there was still time,
do you ever remember the way I misremember

a light through the labyrinth before this lived
outside of me, back when try was enough?

Lindsay McLeod is an Australian writer who lives on the coast of the great southern penal colony with his Blue Heeler, Mary. Some of his published work can be found in A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY, PURE SLUSH, DRUNK MONKEYS, FINE FLU, STONE CIRCLE, BURNINGWORD and, BEATNIK COWBOY.