Rooted Varieties

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Gig Culture

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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

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