Springtime sunset needles through The patchwork clouds In spools of radiant gold leaf thread And weaves itself Into the dumper astrogreen But this merry lift of brighter months Awaiting round the corner Is half spoiled by some 30 something faux-goth cunts Chewing my fucking ears off About how “They can’t live without darts But they’re not addicted” As if the distinction Should mean something to me Or I said I was keen To dissect in depth The oh-so supreme nuances of Their relationship with nicotine This goes on and on So on and so forth As my forehead grinds the floor And I bare the oppressive collapse Of doubt about my life’s direction Like why My priorities are put off permo But a feed of grease from Mykonos Is all to easy for me to sort Which can be brought on by just 15 minutes Of talking to these kinds of Brooding boring Lord Byron Sorts of dickheads So ah ya know oh just be warned Oh be warned. T’sall a sorry backdrop To my blank stare daydreams As torrents of pattern-clad limbs Twist themselves into a Salamanca vortex Of grott enthusiasm for Post Street So potent not even my Arrhythmic weariness could resist The pull of it Currents of whipping hymns amass Signalling the imminence of the mish My babasee bush babies born from Vibrant tufts of wild grass And soft bracken fronds of the landscape Manifest the part of Kubrick larrikin droogs Dragging me off luxurious perch of Codger-core shit talk I revel in As dire as this evening’s been I froth that lush inertia found through Beer garden limpeting to the first chair I get locked in the bleary crosshairs And just siftin it til last drinks This pisshead state of affairs might Suit my ambitions 99% of the time But it's not what This Friday night’s lined up for me The Salamanca Vortex overcomes Yeah The Salamanca Vortex overcomes

Plucking networked flowers From a fibre optic chain I blush at the eroticism Of the eucalypt scent in rain Lucked out on the mountainside But the tarns recall my name And you fucked me harder with pisstakes Than our bodies did entwained The halos of the old world Are hired to link restraints Storm against my window weeps For gutter-fallen saints Frostbitten on the organ pipes My hands gripped stolen paints Past months rise up like leaking ice Now gruesome with your taint Anticipated vowels pushed out In cycle of cliche But breath floats up serenely In this damp and morbid space That thermos pressed against my chest Was my final saving grace No consolation in the constellations On twilight's lilac face. Friction free exchanges spark up Culture wasting flames Panes of glass are whipped and break But only in my brain kunanyi's views yanked on my id And sang to me I'm saved Envisaging that southern isle My final peaceful state

Born bursting out From gilded cocoons And suckling on that Poppy slit’s Waxy milk of residue Who held the blade With fame did slice Stains the lips Enshrouds in white The dripping skull Neglected crown A gifted static halo For the live stream Baby shower Yeah you gave that Pixelated halo To the baby shower Moonchild faberge codex gigas Shibboleth sanity supplements Thesis Moonchild faberge codex gigas Shibboleth sanity supplements Thesis Gust which lash the polaroids Of lovers on the dome They make them move The tattered corners Lick and moan The crib becomes The slaughterhouse The masses melting From the womb Of culture all are one Are whipped right From the start Are pacified Are smoked like Bees in honeycomb My one My son The last to know You’re the moonchild You’re the moonchild You’re the moonchild You’re the moonchild Moonchild baby Why you looking blue? The gaze of the loving world All falls back to you And Moonchild baby Why you looking blue? The gaze of the loving world All falls back to you And Rupert’s eyes are my eyes Rupert’s eyes are my eyes Rupert’s hands are my hands Rupert’s hands are my hands And Rupert’s mouth is my mouth Rubert’s mouth is my mouth Rupert’s tongue is my tongue Rupert’s tongue is my tongue And we use it To lick you clean of sin Because we thought you Liked it moonchild Read that codex gigas While you can And Speaking shibboleths to friends And The press is waiting On your doorstep For your last releases And the thesis And the thesis And the thesis And the thesis Which you leave us with Is death Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth Shibboleth, shibboleth

Razors concealed in an oncoming low Shave the treetops of southern Tasmania And slice apart a thousand duffle coats Worn by spectres which still clock into Sorry midnight through to dawn night shift grinds This hourly bind I’ve managed to pry My twilight frame asunder from at last Oh what a surprise to find myself the timeless ghost What a surprise What a surprise Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Wake up Eight long blacks in swift succession Couldn’t launch my belief That the day had started and Yussef Dayes might well play That “Love’s the Message” but How’s that help me out today Yussef Dayes Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park It’s over And festivities pile upon my loneliness Exposing its gawky gatecrashing for what it is On lawns, steamed up cafes Chattering golden buzz around Saying nothing in particular Besides unwanted rain And I put nail on keyboard tonight And tomorrow I see your face again Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Wake up Eight long blacks in swift succession Couldn’t launch my belief That the day had started and Yussef Dayes might well play That “Love’s the Message” but How’s that help me out today Yussef Dayes Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days spent dazed in haze at the park Listen to Yussef Dayes in the park Days Spent Dazed (Yuh, ay, yuh, it’s lit, oh) Picking flowers for my best friend’s 21st On a wave of endless herbal tea Can’t stomach the first sip Of my overfizzy Asahi And my bahn mi arrives from Uber Eats Saigon Express and I find its contents Cold and soggy by the time they touch My ever chapping lips as I run my eyes Through the crowds of friends and try to Find someone who I even halfway know How to interact with right now cos After months of social inwardness and isolation I don’t have a fucking clue And I run my fingers through the cold wet grass And hope something of its gentleness and crispness Might imbue my conversation with what I used to know How to do and oy I run my eyes around and around the circle Trying to find anything but your face anything but your eyes And I don’t know what to do so I guess I’ll just Fall back to that oh-so classic Tasman Hughes solution Yeah Fall back to that oh-so classic Tasman Hughes solution Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down Bottle to my lips drink it down Lift it up I drink it down

It started off Whispering in the Earthy darkness Subterranean catacomb Conversations climaxing Tongues lap rhythmic Entwining saliva Along The twisting pronged Tributaries of the Styx You wanna commit? We’ll take that easy Achillean dip And unladen ourselves Of the seediness This humid night Was making Above the river midnight Underneath the fleshy soil Plum teardrop of moon Loiters looming Out of place and Swanlike shifting Tracing an elucid lightness Ballet on the overwhelmed banks Bearing silk scarves of Fragrant lavender in bloom You’re wanting it on tissue paper Or a lounge of incense ash Elysiums here and Ya know Pleasure’s not that bad But there is comfort in the final saw stroke Unsheathed critique removes me Of the wastewood of my being Underneath my sawdust altar To the rebirth Any longing glances Are unseen The cuts were long and Whirring teeth blunt And rusty but Didn’t they do their job just fine? Could I really doze off Blissed and heartfelt By the hidden forest river wide While that sawmill’s roaring form Outside informed me of the More-real-than-art-school-lovin Shadows dancing on the cave wall To this song? When the call of taming processes And drive to industry lures me back Afterwards Where flowed the sap Smaller practical Invulnerable and unvarnished Lies merely a splintered Spat out plank Cynical wooden arsehole Obscenely Sneering up at culture From my coop Surrounded by the sanguine nymphs Narrating happy waltzes Of these hidden dreamy Groves and grooves