Miguel Jacq's Blog, page 2

untitled

it is the last day

before the night

of my second trip

back

and all the differences

I’ve ever made are standing

on the bank, forming a

path in ink.

they are here to hand

back the burgled time

I’ve stolen.

One last time I offer

‘I’d always intended

to give it back’

– they say nothing –

they can’t say anything.

I have turned my tongue

anti-clockwise,

or at least otherwise

somehow wound whole armies

up, given life to ghost

myself, echoes of light

in ideas to conquer

or be conquered.

they unwind but don’t

slow down, unlike my hand

tapping as I float through

inky procession,

coaxing as sirens do;

encouraging a wave

to arch its fluids to

foolish lengths

in its best attempt

to seduce.

think I just needed to recharge

how did it come to this?

strung out on silicon,

hot for the chase of satellite signals.

because I’m so hungry for data

I got up three times

before the last five words got down.

think I just needed to recharge

before the last five words got down.

I got up three times

because I’m so hungry for data,

hot for the chase of satellite signals,

strung out on silicon.

how did it come to this?

Frost

onset of winter

I bent the back

of an older man

to take a photo of

a cobweb

wearing frost like

dangerous jewels

on the path.

but the light

was all wrong

on the forest floor

where beasts like this

blot out the sun.

and my knees

indignant

at cold concrete

— previously published in ‘Jellyfish Whispers’ by Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2013

What use?

after the photograph ‘A walk in the Fog and Snow, Kinglake, June 10 2009′ by Lloyd Godman.

what use?

are words after the roar has subsided

yesterday it seemed pointless

burying the dead under an angry sun,

raising new structures, hiding the truth.

what use? you were thinking, when

it only took the morning

to lay its cool satin breath

of ice and home over you,

and all the ghosts who’d grasp

for one more tomorrow

reach out, waving.

Filed under: Poetry

east melbourne

they seep into Fitzroy gardens,

blood vessels and briefcases

converging in their black

coats of April/May.

for a moment here,

between two places,

they gather under the

trees, shuffling closer,

eyes fixed on their toes.

they chase the invisible

breadcrumbs of another

morning.

they seek protection from

the angry Australian sky.

Filed under: Poetry

sensor

at midnight the thunder claps louder

I am just a sensor, my ears work harder

and I walk faster

til I reach the field, its minimal features

stretched thin, taut like drum skin,

like an animal hunting or hunted.

I am just a sensor, and I tell you

some sort of music was played here once.

I can’t hear it now, none can, but those

lingering notes hang like memory,

a moment before the coming of age

arrived, locked still with that tension

of being apparent in their absence,

the stubborn dust still dancing

to impossible rhythms

until that curtain call of dawn

comes down.

Filed under: Poetry

20000

twenty kilometres

out

from the town

it melts

into the thundering

herd

of tomorrow.

there are no monks

chanting here.

there is no safehouse.

there is only that

slow hum

of worry,

punctuated and

inchoate,

sometimes inspired.

we are all twenty

kilometres

from something

on slow orbit,

a meditation on

whatever keeps us

fixed

upon the centre.

Filed under: Poetry

ideation

a hole in the heart -
a worm chasing the blood
downstream

down it goes,
down, down the old town’s
rivers

the one-way shit-carrying
streets
to the caravan’s abandoned block.

you dream of holidays
away from barbed wire
henchmen

and of where things don’t need
to flow through tubes and
veins

and front pages

to get to where they’re going.

no undertow,
flagged nothing,
no sinister thump of machine

kicking you in the chest.

down the old town’s
rivers,
up over the walls

where half-eaten figs hang
steadily more soft,
and through windows open

or not -
they have forgotten
last year’s frost.

now down, over, and into the minds
of the dreamers:
quickly, quickly now,

then seeping back, back
into the earth,
hiding the infiltrator, the dance,

that incursion of night
from the sun to set fury on
at dawn.

-- first appeared at http://migueljacq.com/2014/03/02/idea...

between pages

if you were to send

all the young birch

into the fray

as firewood,

I would be found

somewhere

between the sky

and the grave,

tired ashes settling

with a sigh

around my toes

which would be busy

twisting into root,

desperate

for the deep earth

to moisten me,

voided warranty,

an antidote from

such an early end.

pick me last

in the school team

please

see the forest

but not this tree.

Filed under: Poetry

ideation

a hole in the heart -

a worm chasing the blood

downstream

down it goes,

   down, down the old town’s

                       rivers

the one-way shit-carrying

                          streets

to the caravan’s abandoned block.

you dream of holidays

away from   barbed wire

henchmen

and of where things don’t need

to flow through tubes and

                          veins

and front pages

to get to where they’re going.

                       no undertow,

                       flagged nothing,

no sinister thump of machine

   kicking you in the chest.

down the old town’s

                       rivers,

up over the walls

where half-eaten figs hang

steadily more soft,

and through windows open

                       or not -

they have forgotten

last year’s frost.

now down, over, and into the minds

of the dreamers:

                    quickly, quickly now,

        then seeping back, back

into the earth,

hiding the infiltrator, the dance,

that incursion of night

from the sun to set fury on

at dawn.

Filed under: Poetry