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Graft Carpet becomes grafted onto your dream, and stinks up the night worse than relics, mould is a sign of weather, weather is a sign of fortune bad or whatever. The money stinks, gold scuffed and not brighter than a thousand debts. If snow filled the room it would be no more dangerous than a lifetime paying it all back with grift that soaks into the fibre the story, the wild footsteps in a scene you can't forget when you post yourself awake. Song For Flight Flickbags of words. Snowdomes of retail atrophy. Families with values you can't repeat. Synthetic tunnels. Money in your arm. A ceiling fan chirruping a love song for a backyard. Who needs lines of flight? Time Scythes It's happening for those whose adrenalin leads you it so destroys. It might for those dancing as make perfumes in time more sharp who walk in the length of your rising by spirit field, your rising out of variances not heroes. Take down the broken dead, what silent love America Australia, Britannia have confessed in fresh foolish gadgets reign the length of captured images I try to love. My access sticks more. Why then, love, you're filming my hands in correspondence with nothing but my repose needing mend. Shake these hands. Help at random. Swerves What are they doing with the spoon? Why isn't the chair more comfortable? What is on the page? Is this a timetable or a certificate? Spit it out. Eat it again. It begins to taste like blood after the third time. If only someone would hold your hand like a friend. True or False? It's all in the curve. Here It Is All the squares full of cheap tricks, free coming tongue unrepresented in dark to cure the ail of wages and what you must cop you swallow, you take you give to glisten. The moon has a dead heart shining for ever smell the ground. Say Is Burning Now there's the office of missiles and astronomy sitting above times full of sleep too short all afloat in what's acceptable. All hues seem in order my deepest sense sorry with mud and a lot of thoughts and old words as they do compare the very posterity of drugs with the weather channel the drugs I need not this century some say is burning is going as carefully as working. Did feel. Now. Being Occupied Do you make eyes to think? What sport brought you out here? Is it better to sleep in leaves and smell smoky trees or reduce the room to points on a continuum like shares a white sheet you can't write upon? The curricula were made for you? Is that correct, is that froth? Do you like or unlike? Are you countable as oil-wells? Could you burn the percentage or join another taskforce? Prepare for arson, stray sergeants, in the meantime relax with dots and cones. Horses wait on the bitumen. No-one wants to hurt them. But turn their badges round. Is There Time? Where kids sharpen in rain and incapable I live on a month of frost even onto second-hand gravel gutters look with intelligence. I sweetly chide dolls released from last night. They see others do good, one day it is said we are all going to sleep on it. How can we mend constructed things? After Memoriams Closing time debates the patterned pain nor can songs necessary whisper always write horizon travelling and currents. Take better joy. Take water's thousand. This book of night stings over wrack into my mind can set new travelling thus hard true. Choices Audit the fog but who will stop the tunnel? Choose from this a charter with fugitives undivided on grace. Three words richer in a jet on our own sweet take when we two mourning red find the unswept stone. Find truth among tension whose lines author no more order if through the flame to make a boat which the bettering of shouts loving and make some freshly unlettered feather. Jill Jones is an Australian poet who has published seven full-length books of poetry including Ash is Here, So are Stars (Walleah Press 2012), Dark Bright Doors (Wakefield Press 2010), and Broken/Open (Salt Publishing 2005). She has also published chapbooks including Senses Working Out (Vagabond 2012), and Struggle and Radiance: Ten Commentaries (Wild Honey 2004). A new e-chapbook, even if the signal fails, is due from Black Rider Press in early 2013. She edited, with Michael Farrell, Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets (Puncher & Wattmann 2009). She has collaborated with photographer, Annette Willis, and other visual and sound artists on a number of multi-media projects, which have been presented at various festivals and events in Australia, NZ and the UK.
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