ferryman

ask then about the clarity

the stained-glass smoothness of stones

	the holed moon

	bloodied by its sudden leap


I come across streams

caked in alluvium

hills with barbed-wire heads

nomadic magicians     making hats for tricks


        I pick up coins

 dropped from pay packets

 of long-term sleepers      at-risk icons

 crumbling in the rain


##

streams sparkle with candles

reflections plunge

                        I unpick      stitches of a draft plan

and study the way it falls apart              my fixation is habitual

I play Rachmaninov       on my phone          for the lady

                         breaking bread for her carp


yellow membranes          slide

and her initial reaction is to hop barefooted across rocks


                     she ignores anything surplus to her needs


                             the tampered-with commodity of her sex

her damaged fantasies           opening to the river


##

I've nothing ceremonial to offer

        the return journey is a feast/         a famine

        an orgy of fluctuations


we are both separated by ropes

druidic approaches

robed purple

	you come down steps

sprinkling off-cuts of tubed lighting

onto a forest floor

onto a carpet

	lushly greening as I look


shadows        like walking sticks

hang about in circles

	feeling for imperfections

in the grand scheme of this pick-a-path society


I think of you         as a private performance

		which celebrates intimacy

		key-hole voyeurism for the paid-up few

		a display case for the famous dead


I refuse to let you go

	melt into some solstice
	like a blob 	of cream


<>


the forest floor has its own unique resonance


left           and right protrusions

           push faces flat against wood

you feel the tight squeeze        the squirm


robed for recognition

	you come spraying crops       the new born

		too quick

			to put a price on wacky practices

                       too golden delicious

for the uninitiated

rising from the dampness of a cold bruise

hold tight bulimic morning

many times      have I grabbed from the concubine

the long-eared curvaceousness of a dream



who calls the shots

		when decisions have to be made?

I call the shots         I pull the trigger



hold tight to the Sunday duelists

                                       gun barrels down throats

bulimic women consuming men

    the cross-eyed stars

		living on mountains/      in forests


the sun has become a target

       the scores recorded

       distances measured

       the damage assessed

before the next contestant steps up


I deal out women

	(it's like playing cards)	hands

flash across a table

   grab      retract


you read my palm ...

lines push into a heartland

a finger pokes at a wound

daylight hides its bones in scars



I'm staring at a lake

	       at a cold flakiness

                   at water stretching


up early             I investigate             the tunnels

of a foreign body

            women who matter
            men who fornicate with the air
            boys who watch
            girls who change colour

according to what is being played


                             you claim a close affinity

welcome me into your home

and then there's the disappearing act

we've all paid exorbitantly for


the Queen of Hearts is here        funny that

is first to cut the cake          all on a summer's day

Iain Britton has poetry published internationally in such magazines as Agenda, Stand, The Reader, Warwick Review, Harvard Review and in Meanjin, Southerly, Heat, Jacket and most other Australian online journals. His second collection was published by Interactive Press (Queensland) in 2009. 

Oystercatcher Press (UK) published his 3rd poetry collection in 2009. 
Kilmog Press (NZ) will be publishing his next collection in November. 

www.iainbritton.co.nz 
E-mail: Iain Britton