Unweld Howl

Luna Park entrance, St Kilda, Melbourne – 13/02/2020

One week, two oceans the only cleft
'til we are together anew
giddy waves swell to breaking
fraught with nerves twisted to a rope

stage four is here nary missing its mark
will you remain enraptured by me and I you
do the shapes of our bodies still match
can one understand the other

what falling is it to be
back into place or apart?

my soul still soars and my heart still yearns
any small memory tinder for my wildfire
time stops unraveling
as your remembered voice
whispers in the hollow of my head

I crave to talk more this instant
alas you need space from your daily routine
all I know is the little you tell me
one quiet spark, left alone in the dark

I can give you that reprieve
instead I will name my angst
proclaim it aloud
though the words I have are dusty and awkward
all I can muster in the end is a flawed reprint:
Myriad futures
unfurl, though ones absent us
are the most dreaded


Time and I fly, and now I'm here
but the shapes don't match

I can't talk
soft sounds spat
get swallowed wholesale by the silence
while the space between expands rampant
muted smiles and half-baked gazes
shared sparingly as I watch
my breakfast soak slowly to saturation
a slight respite
the day plays out
go our separate paths
all my fears cacophonous
of that crushing quiet
of the raw rift when we sleep
of losing us
ich liebe dich, aber ein Wir ohne dich gibt es nicht

and now, here I sit
alone in a bar, drinking and thinking
proffering myself
as many solutions as I can hold
tho' none convincing
I'll keep on as before
doing what I can
to bind self-destruction
to stop being powerless
to keep us
I can't talk for now
though I'm remembering how to speak


what am I doing here?
I lay at night, recumbent, waiting
for the cold flash before the drop

have I misplayed your chords?
I may not know many tunes
but those I do ring true

will I ever be loved in kind?
a year on, this time farce
as my love slips through my fingers

the bar, thinking place no more
transformed to a haven
where numbed I sit

I am become a ghoul
haunting the halls of our inner lives
o' how strange is this bardo

things are falling apart
us waned to you and I
until last left to pry

is my wee tender



gentle river bobs along
while we follow its course
sharing each other's words
trying not to hurt

the path back is littered with strife
we talk and talk
'til our voices dim
'til we can look in our eyes
'til we are better again

in the midst of all this toil
a tiny tulip breaking the soil
we learn from our mistakes
sometimes one future breaks
we get to work carving
a future worth having

This piece was written over a couple of weeks in June 2019. Lot’s Wife accepted it as a piece for their print edition – Issue 5, 2019