welcome to wild days

 

the following killer press poetry books by greg t. charlton are re-published in this blog:

 

on death empty street

the strange death of diamonds and back off

proposition /08 and road songs (2nd ed.)

super blood wolf moon

play like a madman / the violin on fire

the chronicles of zero west

fragmentum manus

wild heart dreaming

meta days

a note to the bottom bar

meta poetry 2014

in these early days

blue umbrella

st. patricks day

if she won't have me I won't be had

meta words

from my balcony

 

(for original publication dates and ISBN numbers 

go to the national library of australia)

on death empty street

 

should stand
a moment
commemorate
the landing
on grey
pavement
search for
appropriate
ritual
no time
to think
distill
an essence

AMERICA!


hotel room

prowling
in a moment
of soft brown

a frenzy
in these hands/arms
white bone fingers
clenching

(Poe's terror/delight)

forgotten
indelible
shooting glass
images

back wall
my ghosts
assembled

(already I laugh!)

preaching
to the converted


street ladies
proud/walking

corner to corner
statues

on green/wet
stone

are beautiful
eyes

clear blue
no sparkle
or pain

carry
takeaway
coffee cups
in hand

against the cold


a beggar tells me
this is the best

from Chicago
too tough New York
cool to the Bay

who can argue with a beggar?


window sign erratic flashing staccato I-am-on-the-bed
thinking scene: a thousand b-grade movies (am in one)
constant siren green lit night watching the street is lit green
all structure substance solidity (euclidean) reality dissolving
in green


The Today Show Is Watching You

who would have thought the Image is the Real
and the Ideal Tech. not even Plato and if so
is America just this dream physics in a box?


Border Town

jack
kerouac
in a cowboy
hat
facing
me
LONESOME
TRAVELLER
on a book
shop
shelf
I will buy
and carry
this book
I know
I will
never
read
in every
bus shelter
hotel
room
and mission
line
by
line
I
will
offer
it
as
proof
of
my name
should
I
be
challenged
by
dark
eyes
in
some
cantina

border town


want to bring back the world for her / still can't stop
feeling she's not mine / anymore


mexico
in the back
of the bus

black doves
sing
ancient
sacred
sonatas

fly high
thru texas
billboard
countryside

my heart
still
free
falling
in flight


Texas
street full
of
emptiness

a hobo
appears

and says
you won't
get nothin'
today

it's all
closed up
for
Xmas

I want
only food
and a place
to stay

and hardly
know myself
for it
is what
travelling
has done
for me

who once
asked only
eternal
questions

with no
place to go

but that
empty pit
I call
my heart


Xmas at the Salvos

abandoned
paper plates
and
jesus souls
what's left
of the faith
less
eating

silence


down
Congress Av.
walking
winter
thoughts
hug
in white
ice
chill


Austin Tx.

from
the porch
of a white
southern
mansion
my
banjo's
steel
sharp
angels
into
the black
green
breathless
sweet
night


I met this cowboy in a bar on Congress Av. said he was
Jack Barnett but that they called him the Alabama Wildman
was just killing time in Austin waiting for his partner
Larry to come up from Dallas said when he was drunk enough
they were working for the Government TOP SECRET can you
believe that they're looking for me in five states and
here I am digging missile bunkers for 'em in West Texas
don't make no sense at all


in every
honky-tonk
and strip
joint I drank
in tonight
playing
on the juke-box
FOOLISH FAITH
'I learned
the hard way
trusting you
and my heart
too'


The Girl From The North Country

she comes in
to the bar
and stays
close
to the wall
this Matisse
woman
or perhaps
a Degas
painted blue
is being
watched
and knows it
I say to the Texan
what is it?
and he says
she comes
from the North
I say but
how do you know?
he just laughs
and says
how do I know
what a question


C+W

david allen coe on my radio sings
you never even called me by my name
Sweet Water girl in my bed says
sometimes it hurts to come from Texas


what I know about Audrey is

she married a G.I.
at 17
went to Texas
when I was
3
came home
to visit

a photo
of me in a
Stetson hat
boots
toy gun

Audrey
hugging +
kissing
me

when I was
17 she
died

somewhere
in
Houston

mum
in the back
room
crying

listen

ing to
Kris
tofferson
sing
epitaph
(black
and
blue)

so
far from
home

I
have
a photo
of Audrey
and a
sailor
circa
1942

she was
very
beautiful


Time Dream

I come from
a desert land

its heart
of dust
and mystic
nothingness

its peoples
ancient
and modern

with silent
despairing
courage

have wandered
in and built
around

its emptiness
the illusion
of civilization

but time
will leave
no record

no mark
upon the space

for we are
rootless people

in a rootless
place


spent all day in the snow
searching for a yellow rose
of texas / for you


Outside Gilley's

the pulling up a shower of (brown) dust the night
black inhaling starless at the edge of the world ___
(the world is flat this night) to the side a redneck
hurls a bottle brown brown at/into the pure


the piano man
signed my T-shirt
immediately after which
one of his goons
threw me out onto
the Pasadena highway
I was very drunk
so drunk I couldn't
put a coin in a phone
to call a cab
I had no idea where
Houston was or how
to get back to it
instinct told me
to stagger one way
and not the other
I was very paranoid
about being spotted
by a pick-up full
of rednecks
and being bashed
because of my
long hair I decided
it would be better
to get arrested
I saw a squad car
coming up the highway
I stood on the road
waved and shouted
it slowed down
to a crawl stopped
for a moment looked
and then sped off
somewhere in the depths
I was in the back
of a hippie van
later I wandered
in a black city
this morning
I woke in my room
at the Texas State
I crawled out of
the bed and looked
into the mirror
I was wearing my
T-shirt
on it was written

sincerely yours
Mickey Gilley


in my mind's I a large grey bird is hanging
mid air it is eyeless and all knowing (I am
in this poem) a figure in a black Stetson hat
stepping onto a greyhound leaving Houston
early morning


Nashville Street Vision
(when the cities are dead)

along each street
burnt out caverns
charcoal depth terror
if you look too close

in these sockets of matter
smoldering the ashes of/
the search for/ (iron)
Truth (echoes)

dark years away


The Sam Davis Hotel

someone died
in this hotel room
before I came

dry blood stained
carpet pools
time turning
to black

(still / life
process unknown
to death)

in the bathroom
red spray flecks

like a peacock's
wings opening
on white stone


Outside the Grand Ole Opry

this morning I am white haired Lear hapless playing
with pebbles in a parking lot and the fool an old gin
soaked hobo from the black asphalt says he once
played fiddle with the King


The Letter (with apologies to John Prine)

wanted to sign-off my letter of lies to you with
/your name's on my tongue your blood's in my veins/
couldn't steel the truth


I am stick man sliding
on green thin ice-d pavement

on death empty street
a black windowless cadillac

slows to watch


greyhound bus depot stop/wait Birmingham
is through the door a piece of grey sky


Montgomery

4 hrs.
marching
girl
legs

in red
white and
blue
flowers

I HAVE A DREAM
and HERITAGE

towed
by a cadillac

a picture of
MARTIN LUTHER
KING

in black
and blue

the procession

lined miles of
police riot
vans

watch
in silence

the new Governor
pledging
a new
deal


Jerry Lee Lewis In Concert

ivory hands in flesh (artist/instrument) the illusion
is separateness the atom split qualities transfusing
(Spinoza) at this point we need poetry or insanity
to reach FACT

is music transcends sound(s) hollow I know but picture
Beethoven at the terminal typing (without his mind
happy as a kid) watch the screen random mathematic
figures dancing in/out of existence the hieroglyphics
of silence


blacks
are their own
ghosts
walk
without
shoulders

this street
sags

now weight
less
grey

worn ethereal

despairing
the pound

of too much
history


And Death Is Life's Prompter

a flash of the quick silver beyond
reality's translucent film

and death is life's prompter
glimpsed obliquely

a perverse court jester
dancing in a corner of the eye


in a cab down tree lined avenues going nowhere in
particular I ask the cabbie about Hank Williams
he says he didn't actually live here his mother had
a boarding house down the street the funeral was the
biggest thing that ever happened to Montgomery


Hank's Tomb

is a modern
sharp cut grey
stone monument

an old lady
with flowers
says

"it should be
on the tourist list"

I'm standing
to the side
picturing

a nameless
pauper's grave

by an abandoned
railroad track


A COUPLET LEAVING A GRAVEYARD

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY
THE SUN SHINES SOFT ON THE DEAD


for words


a secret
of poets

I will betray

I do it all
for
words

others have
dislocated
my

bound me in
their

placed me in
a trunk
of

and lowered me
to the sea
of

but I have
on many
occasions

escaped
to get drunk
on

in a kitchen
once

there was
a raven
haired shrew

with a hammer
raised against
my

but I was too
old to die
for

and too young
to live
with

so I left
to wander

for years
I was lost
for

I turned
inward
because
of

and even
fell in love
without

but always
the moon

and now
after it all

bare and hard

this reign
of
words


still /
only in motion

I can see now
at the end

of the journey
my heart beats

on/down

the road



(c) greg t. charlton. 2021. 2023. 2025.

 

the strange death of diamonds and back off

 

The Strange Death of Diamonds


Being is

the embrace

the unbound
variable

(here)

is everything

suspend
judgement

as if

to deny

a point

underlying

the appearance

(imagined lights)

the language
of no tongue

every thought

a breath held

the great falsity

only possible

if the stone
is

true

the hard ground
of no illusion / no mind
dirt / time

the sharp focus
(a permanent possibility)
against

the heart
of madness

(every man / every day
perpetual motion)

sanity

the presentation

certainly

the horror of the bare facts

leads
your mum and dad investors
to suspect

briefly occasionally

design

or
its absence

down a supermarket aisle

or perhaps
the next one

and then

there's the anxious fellow
who creates

something in something

for the purpose of
focus

respite

from the broken mirror

also

the wrecked girl
early morning vodka

the empty bar

the world begins

everything is

stepping
onto a tram

or

stepping off

and no Wagnerian wind
of massive import

or

little men

who become
their own gods

with titles like
mr.

or president

will change
the fact

of not knowing
a damn thing

and its consequence

the earth
the sky

the motion of waves

things
recording time

creatures
drawn to the sun

bodies

trapped
in dreaming

it is only the physics of light

a reflection in metaphor: mind
and its bag of words

(what a lovely little trick)

a question of
brilliance
speed
changing
and
death

despite the bleeding
of hopes
and dreams

the game is set

(it set itself)

and we are capricious

against the fact

(or 'knowledge'
for the initiated)

it matters not

what clothes you wear

we come back again and again

to the bright lights

the slot machine

the table you can't eat off

the spirit world
of pure mathematics

to prove
a truth

as given as the day

such is the way

of joy and suffering

(human beings)

in short

a biological refusal

to be fixed

within the fixture

the dissoluteness

of dust
in brightness

(of course
there is no

place)

how else could it be?

the point of it
is never known

people

come together
and reach beyond
(the other's eyes)

the heart is chaotic

but for bodies

there would be
nothing

to hold

only the spirit
before

or after

generation or decay

so

you have
an incomplete
picture

of everything

the agonies
of trust

the terrible crimes
of love

the death of
unrealized

futures

and the utter
strangeness

of every life

what is to touch?

who holds another?

where
the still place?

people

are the explosion

I was once

the centre

of

and in the light of day

we face square
the fact of evil

(when every illusion
fell

from the sky)

no more
no less

than force applied
upon

the weaker

(power had
power lost

power
just a clear run)

it's a question
of balance

history is fluid

nature
for all its strictness

a careless
god

no thought
of consequence

(the relativity
within
the square
within
the grid)

writ large

movements
of earth sky

(beyond this
diminishing
torque

back to
C)

small
sharp

a blade
to the heart

an unkind word

(every act is true
does it bring together
does it tear apart?)

there is uncertainty

argument
for random

landscape
barren and complete
outback

the persistence
of a presence

you

the mystery of
time

wound tight

upon another's
space

the other
to you

born before

a template imposed

attaches
to become

ingrained

the imprint
on imprint

changes everything

from the beginning

the language
is colour

eyes shine

vagabond hair

the action
of bodies

hands singing

the vanity
of step

drawn lines
of being

a slow motion
weaving

in / down
dry river beds

worn ancient

existence
is in the dirt

no vision
beyond

disconnectness

a pure state of mind?

what joins things
together

(a thought)

strange relations

who's to say?

perhaps

we all fear
the difference

and so
cleave

to what appears
true

found in another's
eyes

or reputable texts
of physiognomy

needless to say

an illusion

well supported
in the village

so

there are brackets
it's logic

what can be in

what must be (or will be)
out

(hey
number
rock
mule)

personhood

(star)

a fluidity within

anything that has
an inside

(consciousness)

nevertheless

time aggregates
slow steps

a fusion

content / form
to

a oneness

(and a pattern

emerges

somewhere
in the little mystery)

what then is open?

movement

is a key
to indeterminacy

still within
boundaries

infinities

and everything

not fixed
or dying

the best men I know

are magicians
of the dust

it is the secret
to disappear back

to the world

to shed
in raindrops

the last of thought's
pretence

the glass of mind
dissolving in the sun

turning
to rock

in the death of moonlight
cold

crushed
to desert

and standing
still and clear

in the emptiness

as the winds
of colour

beauty and turmoil

swirl around

reach for

and pass on
by

I think

Alyssa moves
in shadows
mirrors of logic
in lost time

the day

a blue sky

as simple
as opening
the front door

forgotten worlds

power

was the beauty
of young limbs

girl dreaming

the truth of lightness

(summer fields)

a child born
named desolation

to leave
her barren

hard ground

insanity
struggles to grow

and now
she

hiding in her body
inspecting entrails

signs of presence
and death

divining

the savage
of blood and lust

says the dead
beg

forgiveness

it is the weight of everything

there is a point in the endeavour

when you can only
stop

or turn away
and dig

down
deep

into the darkness

to the strange forms

of decayed gods

(the order before light)

art

is the consuming
of anguish

we have no reason

the flight of thought

the break out

the great escape
from replication

the hope of every
comic tragic act

the beauty of folly

we

are given everything

in the hard glass
of awareness

even the stars
are really out there

the reach and hold
of consciousness

a true subtlety

a wisp of air
from no place

fragile as change

tough

as a line of fence wire

so

I am

a moment
of mind

in your head
and mine

the identity
of memory

only

to the artist

pieces

fragments

shattered

on a blank canvas

(everything falls to place)

nothing is related

(you must imagine
the absence of mind)

consciousness emerges

to draw in

everything connected

(intelligent design)

in your eyes

the hills
will always

be there

you cannot see outside

the accidental framework

you can only toil within

covering the ground
to discover

possibility is

the ignorance
of necessity

(the art of weather forecasting)

a line -

when the line split

from its wound

a cosmos
fell out

when the line split

when the cosmos
died

it fell upon its reach

it fell upon its reach

when the cosmos died

a note

of perfect

pitch

consider this:

time / space (we'll call
it 'x') a continuum

flatline (as many
dimensions as you
want

infinite

for all intents and
purposes

= 1)

and so

reality

before mind

as the knowing

that you (or whatever)
know

is

the great transformation

when

the line turns

the accident
of curve

to come upon

itself

consciousness

Plotinus

laughs with glee

his bright eyes

drunk with joy

the Agora

the summer of
'72

imagination
breathing

deep and joyous

drinking in

the lake
of unknowing

there is only presence

translucent

silver bright

consciousness is

a girl running
down a highway

centre line

the only quest
refuge

from what you have

is the eternal place

every soul is lost

O this gentleness

the art of living
a day

requires a lucidity

to be
within and without

(the self)

at each
presentation

of the world's
intrigue

an ever present
flowing

to the clarity of

witness

death

the absurdity of
only one

go round

you have the sense
of moment

(the illusion
eternity)

facts

make you think
twice

and like

decaying things
eventually

bring you down

to sadness

so

you go across
the road

aware

on various
levels

seeking

the pleasure
of surface

to remember
sanity

or its report

virtue

a decision
to focus

upon

a conception

of the self

(how to be?

self-directed

against

the world as
affectation

e.g.)

and the tailoring

of the miniature

of act
and thought

to point thus

Paris 2005

order is not a given
an instinct to yes
systems inherited
intelligence demands
adaptation power
blinds the forgotten
riot

the straight line

sharp
and
true

reason is

the perspective of God
the calculation of a
Turing machine

the observation
of a child

the look
and bearing of Gillian
Welch

(back cover)
Time / The Revelator

hard country

without guarantees

there is no hope
here

only clarity

suffering can lead to
politics

avoid

the panic

attention

a focus

a choice
of recognition

a sustain
of mind

on

what?

the point

never fixed

too much
impresses

outside
and in

never
a clean slate
to begin

finally

you say
amongst competing
thoughts

and battle to
stay

with
one

I read a poem
in a book

'Learning Human'

the words run
as super then sub

text

to

what I would say to MW
regarding x

Aristotle's idea of
happiness

the bakery
in Korumburra

Brett C
and his bull approach

my mother's eyes

and then
the print

like a country train
through the hills

rattles back
into view

time
is relentless

we reach for
a hold

and pretend
the catch

(as real as can
be)

bodies

the appearance of

the myth
of

now

technology creates
the lie

of its deception

for consumption

at the dinner
table

we dispute

the presentation

against

the subtext of
truth

what is not

given

and so

the debate

does the leader
deceive?

or so thoroughly
believe

there is no

deception?

when is the lie?

who is to say?

what is being said?

without

the grab

no focus

language
dots

crystallized

to
picture

you can
copy

replay

better than
thought

(too fast)

uncertain

in and out
of existence

hard
to

pin

dangerous
to

the game

all agree

necessary

to play

it's
a suspension

the hanging
of
everything

I say

biology

hardwire
of

time

(is it one
or the only
possibility?

good question

Liebnitz
went for
both)

dirt
stone and dead wood

as real as

your next imagination

where
the world ends

your touch

begins

(it's not
just the grand conception

if you like
of a god

imagination
is

the intrigue
of

the gold chain
of

movement

causal
on a slow day)

you see

mind has only one
place

back in baby's arms

matter is

a stretch

that never leaves

the farm

stardust

behind
the picture

and running

fast

in black

as if
a place
to go

or

time

is of
the essence

the very point
is

that you cannot
know

either that

or regard
the question

false

do away

with deception

face

the hard glass

of no reflection

shown

the way of right choice

in the dark waters

each wave
breaking

is true to the sea

the wind is without
knowledge

the illusion of mind

is of no consequence

action is the shape
of thinking

in the hands of time

the heart
has no reason

stillness is absence

the tension

(existence or
not?)

is all there is

to describe

but for that

language must

turn
on itself

as if outside
the game

hence

poetry

or insanity

(desperate
failures)

or

the sharp
move

stay indoors

(recognize
the truth of silence)

and work
from the inside

out

a young
disaffected man

saw
a resolution
in thought

to the oppression
of occupation

the idea
of non-exclusion

the logic of one

he was tortured
and executed

by his own
people

a threat to all
tribes

poverty
separates

distorts to
a madness for

God

the point
of
hanging
by
the neck

or

crucifixion

is the
suspension

with humans

enjoy the pleasure of surface

avoid
the entrapment
of
depth

the meta desire for
oneness

oblivion
(or its road)

beneath touch
the chaos of becoming

identity

a fluid state

theft and murder
its history

fever

the mark of all

on Anzac Day

shame
protected
by stupidity

to the glorification
of disaster

as if

humiliation

is the mark
of

nationhood

does anybody
believe this

the mythology
of submission

serves who?

lest we forget

there are no masters

but for

the cowering

of servants

we are
history's whores

we have learnt to
sacrifice

integrity

for security

and wealth

the great
anaesthetic

she'll be right

mate

bear in mind

everything
that you are

beliefs dispositions
behaviour

how you define
yourself

at any point
of time / place

is

not necessary

(without foundation)

contingency

is only

possibility
expressed

(everyone else
is the same)

we only know
nature

from the inside

the boundary

is a thought

never fixed

there's no
steppin' out

therefore

'whatever'

is true

(an outrageous thought
no less)

I say

dig your heels
in

p.s.

reason is
explanation

account

language

the publication

always after the fact

the giving
of definition

to
the indescribable

and any

well formed
version

has legs

with people

it's best to eat dirt

it's the instability of skin

eyes turn close

and expression

beggaring

knowledge

you are left

speechless

and innocent

pain
can be such a

childlike thing

still

the fact of
moving

in relation
to

on a street corner you can be
chained

or flee to forever

courage
is small

you face

the impossible

of

another

and the great
dilemma

of touch

never certain

or sure

of joy

or poison

a word to
the shadow men

there is no absolute
control

of people / society

only intelligent selection
of grip

of resource

method
(i.e. democracy)

and no design
only

consequence

history

the mistake
(evil if you wish)

we are always
correcting

or not

with schemes for
liberation

and enslavement

(the idea
as an expression
of

material condition

in the language
of spirit)

from one state
to the next

no resolution

just a luxury
(or fate)

of motion

a repetition

never stilled

gravity is
the illusion

necessary
for walking

forces come and go

a question
of place

strictly speaking
there is

no space

time

a symphony
for

thought

(silence)

what content?

soft dark eyes

blink

behind the phenomenal

possibility
explores itself

from everything
to the point of nothing

and back
and again
and again

if you like

or

just

recurrence
eternal

a fixed dynamic

only the moment
is free

re:
quantum mechanics

velocity
or
position?

it's all in the eyes

George

it's as though

you are

a succession

of forms

complete to
an invisible
extinction

and then you

turn up
later

years
gone by

on a railway
station

a figure
passes by

and for an
instant

a memory
a shell

of an eternity
once spent

with someone

somewhere

for reasons

that became

the stars

it's the secret of
blindness

to move through

untouched

the conspiracy of
things

in the ordinary mind
seeking

entrapment

the answer
to the great dilemma

is no more than

a failure
to grasp

a frame to the world

hotel window

the Gatwick private
room 60

(the space of summer)

trees below on Locke St.
easy

(no-one cares today)

even hard

street / stick
figures

ease up
the hustle

for the breeze
is a silent melody
of eucalypt
and dream

as free as a young heart

my
typewriter
stands

old black relic
on
display

in the park

birds meet and
coo

children to play upon

old men
playing dominos

remember such madness
and its
hands

Jo
Straight

came out of the hill
country

where
the truth

is just behind
the landscape

a chaos
of heart

never seen

for girls

it's back roads

and ancient knowing

of the subtleties
of light

cars
boys

deep
distractions

she thought
herself

away

to the world

a city
never believed

and books
and lovers

could never
make

true

so

she escaped

to be

a refugee

the world falls away
in its realization

a sparse
hotel room

and
imaginations
dancing

staccato

up and down

.the hall

emptiness
the fill

of pleasure
skeletons

after this
I don't know

I would like
to think

children

a husband
like

her father
before the betrayal

I think

I saw her
once

her eyes

pleading fire

Elizabeth St.
at night

a bottle in hand

and then

gone

as an apparition

or

perhaps

just my
anguish

unexplained

we

are not
solid things

nor
transparent

it's anarchy

and the eyes
have it

a desperate rush
to meaning

tangled limbs

to
nothing

(the sound of
banjo

slow walking

miner's song

skinny girl

singin')

possession

knowledge
of another

the trap of history
blood

lock it in
with love

and defend
to the death

the reason of pain

the eyes

of the loved victim

war

(only the cartographer
is inspired)

regard

the devastation
of belief

dancing
in the mine field

is your best bet

strip down
the synapses

always

doubt

what is a person?

the distance between

physics and ideal

the space haunted

Steve Earle at the Corner

fatigue
137

a new wife
says

"how did that happen?"

(married to
the foreboding
sky

down under)

a three piece
hard edge

meta R+R
boys

the prophet
eyes black

the practice
of the kill

the knowledge
of a boy

who found his way out of
the woods

the revolution

endless back roads

new town

old story

the rising wave of devil voice
halts

to fall

a pestilence of sound
upon

the godless

village

quaint

repro /
and killing

is what we do

hand to hand
thought to thought

love and commerce

the escape of art

death
by hanging

village
theatre

pre-masquerade

for Ned

the quiet white
mask

eyes closed
to prayer

a stillness
behind

free hills
galloping

back

to nothing

peace

the last
atrocity

we

reproduce
to this

the crime
of humanity

have mercy

respect
non-existence

or go on
and be

death's reason

without
the illusion

of gift giving

you bring
everything

to each encounter
only

bushwhacked
by

lack of
attention

and speed

of the other world
invasion

the question

take a stand
for

reason

(a decision
to focus

and maintain)

or let the desert
wind

sing to
the void

people
must impose

on space

(it is the terror
of nothing

and a deep
meta

dynamic
at work)

and debris
is the truth

of galaxies
and

living rooms

though

to leave a mark
a talisman

a history

is the need
of vanity

the illusion
of purpose

necessary

against
the madness
of image

or the horror
of its

absence

so

we imagine
a language

and delight in

its colours

surface defied
by thought

and each thought
a surface

worlds

contained
and veiled

art

is everything

we

do

and in fact

there may be nothing
to go to

if you reject
the noise

of the world

monks

have always known
this

the language
of hands

the rituals of
folding

silence

we are
reflections

in / of

motion

the problem of
consciousness is

language

description
of

description

no point
of reference

fixed

without naming

the world
cannot be

said

the argument

is one step
removed

from whatever
state of affairs

it is
to sculpture

a form

of knowing

discourse

and its playing out
to consequence

conclusion

the archeology
of the inherent

the discovery of

essence

definition

therein

for all its
precision and clarity

remember

the great loss
of distance

the violence
of conversion

the sacrifice
to order

stripped bare

of leaf

(the wind's
eyeless

reckoning)

an old knotted gum
tree

(ancient the reasons)

stilled

in a dialectic
dance

to a brutal
stand

against nothing

severed limbs
obscene

implore

the sky

to be
just

what you are made

in terms of
circumstance

who cannot say

is to live

as true
as rain?

and is it false

to believe

in other worlds
and other ways

to think beyond

the way it is

to how

it ought to be?

we stand between

the passing figure

and the shadow
on the wall

we can be
either / or

upon

another's

call

delight

physics alive

mathematic
chaos

points
of light

in / out

existence
holds

biology
the joy of fixture

a fluidity

eyes

scent

the need
to be

lost
in

touch

there are three
steps

to see
with fingertips
the sound
of stone

to step back
to knowing

the ways of light

(before
the haunting
begins)

to wander
in the crystal palace

trapped
for

an eternity

and in the cataclysm

to find
a door

to the sky

(there is no
ground

anymore)

you cannot
say

what
or
how

and so
to the loss

of thought

you watch
from the pier

an empty vessel

with
no reason

and turn back
to

the memory

of dust

and
eyes

yes
the truth
of it

uncertainty
(at the least)
you cannot
let

take hold
or be

denied

hence

the contortion

each body
displays

traces

of the agony
in skin

and movement
of limb

and minds

strange
echoes

flying

in the shape
of

birds

trapped
in

eyes
never

still

in case
the horror

it's the waiting
we watch

in this space
the illusion is

motion / velocity

behind the eyes
eternity

we step out
from

the focus is given
action assumes

thought underwrites
necessity

consciousness

the fluidity
is fixed

draw the line
perfection

every approach
a replication

we copy only
the copy

the question
of difference

the illusion
of time

where you begin
random selection

the illusion is present

(time dissolves substance)

there is only perspective

everything is here

image out of

nothing

a ballerina
crouching

knows

only

her nakedness

there's a point
when

we try for
to cut

the sculpt
of

steel
vision

to give
a clarity

a style

to see through

the dust
and pale light

unseasonable
days / years

you need
a belt of something
hard

to stave off

and it's
just an idea

nothing in
the sweep

the laughter of
vanity

gone

unless
you get

convinced

(stuck)

and just waste
to an end

or

to avoid

think
outside

and be ever
reaching

slight
the difference

the genius
of this dealing

and

madness
seen

so

whatever

watch for
the others' eyes

and professions

of the heart

and hands

be careful

(nothing holds)

the possibility
of novelty

is either / or

you can go
relative

with quantum theory

(quirky)

or
the whole hog

anything
is only

a random
event

and so

the world

(not to mention
the next thought

or a spark
of desire

in a young girl's
heart)

against
all this

the history

of everything

a clockwork

the order

that just is

design

with or without

a designer

(surely only
a selling

point)

imagination
the music of grass
before

cutting

clarity

(either/or)

back burn

to desolation /
innocence

or leave

untouched

West Virginia

it is the pure
and simple
poverty
of
thought

a straight line
of beauty

into the hills

and
down

to mine

the necessity
of poetry

mythology

in the darkness

God

the earth
is the horror

you never
return from

dead or
alive

on the surface

we move
as if

watched

respectful
to each other

at the table

hands
joined

in prayer

silent

the ground
of terror

like the sun
I know about dying

(it's only a trick)

on the other side
of the mirror

is everything

in absentia

(the eyes have it)

there are grades
of spirit

from light to stone

matter is resolution

the resolution is slow

eons

time is

a choice
biology made for you

nevertheless

flexible as wire

the strings
of a cello

played with
passionate eyes

the mind
is velvet

at this point

the dead

come back to life

with each appearance

and disappear
again

and again
and again

the spirit lost

seeking knowledge
of itself

therefore

the world

inside and deep
down

the problem
of repetition

(how to escape?)

Form
within forms
within forms

endless
expression

of what?

an eternal music

beautiful only

given the absence

of reason

(sui causa)

we seek in each
embrace

of mind

and heart
and limb

the consummation
to make for

the existence
of

God

(how to escape?)

reproduction

the energy of
ignorance

as if a copy
good or bad

a shield against
the nothingness

a reflection
of the soul?

and hope for
a saviour

the constant

in every plea
of every heart

we fall back
destroyed

to myth

the only consolation
and its idol

the book of psalms

knowing

there is
no exit
to

and no memory
of

a beginning

so

the drive for
an end to

as a reason to be

(holocaust

in drunken
moments)

knowing

it was always
as it is

everything
you do

(and what you don't

has already
passed away)

sight

a variable

clear vision
a story

with no bones

the crushing
weight

of existence

transforming
to stone

every thought
and dream

every act of love

poetry

the story anyone
gives

/ lives

metaphors
straightened
to

real life

people

pictures
of language

syntax

the illusion
of reality

fixed

(always
the temptation)

resist

no stillness

the spirit wind

no definition

word

you do not belong

the nation

a myth
of place

(a decision of
cartographers)

geography
a lack of perspective

history

lies
where there is no
truth

power

a question of
dirt

coveting
and savagery

you do not belong

to people
you come from

love

cannot be held

(no-one belongs
to you)

genetics

images
of the deep

blood

has no
definition

there is no
race

you do not
belong

to

there is a day

we all surrender
to the sun

at the point
the perfection

between its
dying and death

around 2.00 p.m.
at the seaside

eternity's breeze
through the azure

a streetscape
surreal

in waves of light

bodies walk
transparent

beauty

whatever there was
to think about

to curse to grieve

to plan to
overthrow

is suspended

between the sky
and sea

being

freed
of existence

for this time

there is only

breath

and children

of salt and sand

running

to and from

the great blue

dreaming

time is without
imperative

no direction
given

the wonder of eyes

consciousness
seeks foundation

anxiety is the name

(the ground of joy
or fear)

light
the revelation

the world
is translucent

how to be
what to do

existence = motion

(I move
_
I am)

the focus
of stone

there is nothing
behind the wall

the act is

pure

grammar

is impossible

explanation
is only

a decision

to speak about

there is no
exit

or place to

look back
from

the total

cannot be seen

the beginning

untouched

so

you start
with the question

where?

and infer
to an answer

there -

everything
moves away

faster than horses

or this is

an illusion

beyond

the senses

a word to the cubists

a thought for the
electron

(fragments of a world)

just

a question

of how the piano

is played

either the world

exhausts itself
to nothing

or

there is nothing
to go to

direction

presupposes
origin

requires
knowledge

needs
to see

with eyes

to begin

the display
of possibility

we decide
the world

to the extent
that it is not

formed

consciousness
the space of

indeterminacy

the domain
is fixed

existence defines

itself

the spirit
straightened
/ true

bar
mornings

emptiness

delight

figments

appear /
disappear

stories
hard

details

bright
worlds

live / die

in
strange
light

logic is

(exclusion)

defines

inclusion

the absence
of

parameters

is

no number

no

sacred
or

elite

thought

each

act

isolate

gathering

to

bale

no

season

for

hope

bide

in the lyric

on the river

sound

the beauty

black

is testament

everything

returns to

no-one

leaves

the waltz

of shadows

caressing

out of time

ex nihilo

it's like anything

you need to adopt
a stance

to begin

and then
to understand

the illusion

of this

choose your
substance

spirit

matter

or

none of the above

stay in character

play

to the end

this is the point
only

possible worlds

in every act

reality

the empty name

you stand
dead centre

origin

the attempt

to embrace

understand
the limit

of the world

is
particularity

respect
the fact of

definition

watch for
the lust for

knowledge

this above all

people
are not to be

assaulted
violated

with the gaze
of
certainty

we appear

out of
nothing / everything

can you tell
the difference?

we live -

the language of motion

the business of clouds

the nails of passion
in space

we disappear

(the world is magic)

behind the screen
of mind

the streetscape
of days

is the pure absence

you cannot step into

only drink

the spirit free

(naked girls dancing)

and focus

not

a question
of truth

but
determination

and
for this

a madness

for how

it ought

to be

a matter

of

perspective

no

ground zero

to appeal
to

we fly

at nothing

with belief

words

form

a space

of no fixed

character

indeterminate

here

we move

without
knowledge

seeking

rest

everything lives

a question only
of kind and function

perspective

a form of
rest and motion

substance is
description
open

no reason
behind

or end
to embrace

space time
identity

forms
of existence

we cannot
touch

rest
in the absence

of
knowledge

being
is enough

to the Americans in particular

understand
the necessity of
brackets

the point of definition
is vision

the blind
have no

restriction

or point
of

focus

(the inside)

cannot be known

does not
exist

if you cannot
distinguish

what you are not

outside
of

people
move through

awareness

(a ghost of space)

the ground
is featureless

the order of imagery

from bio-fixed
to shooting star

consciousness
seeks to understand

we are all beggars
blind

so

a stop here
a move there

to find what?

passion
only

to defy

the emptiness

pure

understand
you have no rights
here

no God

and law
as fickle

as a whore
on Saturday night

they'll transport
you out

and in

on a smart-arse
pleasure

it's the evil of
self-righteousness

and the liberal
failure

needs
a victim

to pretend

a reason
to be

know

citizenship
requires that

you are not
mentally ill

speak German

of Asian appearance
or

the apparent victim
of road trauma

that you are not

a heroin addict

or have Serbian
parents

this at least

at last report

though yes

it could change
tomorrow

on the whim of
some vicious cunt

in a designer
suit

in the meantime

you can still call
Australia

home

but you need
to know

it's not a nation
it's a club

you are either in
or out

and ask yourself

why do you have to

or

believe you have to

belong to
anything

you don't need

membership

to think

(and the world is wide)

I learnt
God

quick and deep

the original
sin

to bolt

at least
now

I understand

Aquinas
and

two blokes
and a kid

at the door
Sunday morning

and yes

the possibility
of

substance

(who can
live with just

appearance

how do you

reinvent
the world

with each gaze?)

kitchen table
interrogations

killing without
a second thought

I walked away
from politics

shocked

at how good
I was at

psychopathy

still

some wisdoms
gained

I can recognize

the art
of scaling buildings

and the micro-
biology

of deceit

in the death
of hope

the understanding
of stone

learning its
intimacy

and gentleness

stripped
down

to desire

I know
the way of

abandonment

(a coldness
never lost)

bar room life

pre-
conscious

I left
with Aristotle

the proposition is empty

weight is given /
weight is taken away

truth / an infinitesimal
calculation

demands
absolute space / time

irrational numbers

unravelling

faster than light

the world is pristine

it is always a day in the hills /
the grass is dancing / the light is true /

this is how I hope to see you

clear lines
of thought

a construct for
simplicity

(the intellectual
remove

the loss
of mooring

always
denied

in brilliant
smiles)

nature has no
division

truth is alien

a surface
ephemeral

man is not
a kingdom

within a kingdom

re: Spinoza

despite
the action of

the mind

no transcendence

the work
is art

as close

as you can get
to dirt

is

the absence
of reflection

there is no way /
any route is true /
the world is revelation /
we tangle /
in this unknown /
autonomy /
a necessary falsehood /
nothing is lost /
nothing is gained /
being is /
having space

in Alabama

the dirt sings
the grass writes

the wind
in the dust

a symphony
never complete

the poetry of heart

from

the inside

you can
look out

and wonder

even
describe

the ever

changing

picture

you make

with each

and every

act of

thought

the universe

is geisha

it's a question

how far
to step back

for the absence
of focus

to the perspective
unbound

and then
the realization

there is no
background

to retreat to

so

the illusion
of motion

and place

and no horizon
beyond

only this

the ineffable

and

time's eyes
tracking

in desolation

consciousness

an anxiety running
bright

on the bluestone
street

when
the world gives up

its position

and moves on

setting up
the card table

on
another corner

with stoic eyes
watching

the brief
immolation

of a
light

come back from

Venus
Saturn
Jupiter

Mars

and the stupidity
of looking for life

out there

subject

all cosmologists
to

psychiatric
examination

register

the delusions
of physics

and look for
treatment

delete
the program

close down
the base

lock up
the hanger

walk out into
the African desert

if you want
evidence of

death

in the back blocks
of wealth

down the alley ways
of destitution

the place of
homelessness

and disease

you will find
a truth

worthy of
discovery

fix it

to a vision
of the past

everyone
must be quiet

think

be still

what can be done
must be done

stupidity

is the hallmark
of wealth

noise

the sign
of confusion

the rocks
and the stone
blocks

standing

have always known

the human heart
a lacking

they closed down
sentience

in disgust

to watch
blind

with no warmth
to touch

truth

is the message
of these gods

the utter certainty
of nature

the reason for consciousness?
the reason for grass

the deception
of mind

just a matter of
perspective

your vision
is always

flawed

reach for the clarity
of stone

back to ground

the spirit
rests

look to
the back hills/

think of a life

as a briefness of beauty /

age

is the illusion
of time in bones

and skin

the spirit
changeless

no question of
duration

check the eyes

the world
creates

its falseness

as a perception
of

itself

(for the image
cannot

be)

there is

a necessity

in this

the possibility
of

movement

is nothing

to the heart

only a reason

for the days

to disperse

the vegetation
of time

and so

space

is manufactured

in the dancing
of hands

eyes watching

the strange death
of diamonds

listen to

the music
of voice

the beautiful
secret

is the revelation

Jude

in every thought

and act
of love

your beauty
so precise

my heart
breaking

falls apart

in your heart's
embrace



BACK OFF

back off

from Iran

safari suits

and bad breath

(I know

that guy

he worked in

the kebab shop

in Fitzroy St.

had his own

pool cue

who would have thought?)

back off

the broken

hot plate

social workers

men

who try to bolt

anything

to the floor

back off

the national parliament

the lack of

opposition

the dinner party

government

rights

to whatever

you don't have

(NB.

there is no sense

in

the idea of

a positive law

tell the Hare Krishnas

the Cat Protection

Society

the campaign

for Bill)

back off

the hangman

the junkie

the priest

and you

back off

and your wife

and kids

and the dog

go to Arthur's Seat

and back off

down the slope

back off

dickhead

like the past

old friends

reasons for

and against

lovers

it's a question

of nerve

and steel

so

remember

to

step

back

if you see me

coming

up

the track

back off

Jesus

you fool

Mohammed

and gangster rap

and laughing boy

back off

to Tibet

(and take

the exes

and Bono

with you)

and back off

Jerry Lee Lewis

and

George Jones

come on Mary try

Allison Moorer

Shelby Lynne

back off baby

excellence

is a terrible burden

you never get

your father back

back home

to Jerusalem

the revolution

starts now

back off

the war on terror

open the cage

Guantanamo Bay

bring to trial

George Bush

Tony Blair

John Howard

at the Hague

don't

back off

42,000

Iraqis dead

heroin

flowing again

in Afghanistan

back to

the USA

the Arabs

can wait

they invented

mathematics

abacus

don't be fooled

there's no group

worth belonging

to

dismantle

the collection

return to

the piece

just a thought

outside of

need

is purity

back off

to clarity

insist

back up

kids

women

abos

your ex wife

old friends

mum

and dad

bros

and

sis

forget

the rest

(no offence intended)

back up

yourself

in an old kit bag

and don't

expect

a hand

a kind thought

a kiss

just back off

quietly

back off

un-Australian

this / that

(whatever

can't be explained

or understood)

I don't have

mates

for reasons of

health

and intellect

I prefer

a good

conversation

with anyone

who's backed off

cigarettes

junk food

cars

let the trees

breathe

or they'll

back off

evil is pain

you never wipe

the slate clean

don't

back down

existence

is in your face

walk

as much

as you can

the spirit

needs legs

read

or you get

stuck

(coagulate)

without

a thought

project

mad dream

or

a night out

at the circus

you backdate

it's time

to back burn

the state forest

everything you

believe

possessions

friends

the Internet

needs a clean out

light the match

click delete

there is no time

it's not

when but what

do you think

you're here for?

as if

there's a reason

I don't push it

anymore

I stepped

back

to let

the seasons go

and passions

to embrace

it's not

a question

of making rain

to fall

or a heart

to change

these eyes see

a clear blue

sky

outback

remember

truth is just

a fiction

but necessary

to order

the glass menagerie

lost souls

are its overthrow

the metamorphosis

to beast

is only

a page turned

back

the suit men

the ever ghosts

of matter

must be

revealed

exposed

in the light

the pestilence

of their eyes

can only

be stilled

in fire

(back to

grey stone)

on the cobble

street

make

your own way

which ever

way it is

the genius

of each step

beware

there's always

someone

to wrong foot

you

back door

you

in the name of

truth

love

society

so tell 'em all

the gainsayers

the prevaricators

the disseminators

the oscillators

the speculators

nature

reason

and

God

back off

(c) Copyright: greg t. charlton. 2006. 2025.

All rights reserved.