mel plur

one sweet dream

step on the gas

and wipe that tear away

her eyes reminders of all lost love,
of time posted in tears,
of music hidden behind stars,
of rain spread across leaves,

of a golden orb

filling my heart

with blue skies,

of darkest nights

when no arms fall

upon my soul

and sounds of self slaughter

echo upon a barren

capitulating landscape,
of a glistening smile

breathing in and out

meeting ecstasy

living to hear her voice,
of water,

of sky,

the wind,

the sand,

the stars,
of all that I can

be with her,

and now without

I cannot smile

or bring air within for

fear of choking

upon tears,
vanishing when once again,

replenished,

I gaze within that vision

of all that the world

will ever need to live.

and I will sing a lullaby,

one two three four five

six seven

all good children

go to heaven

Within the panorama of a dream, a solitary light gleamed from the window of a vast red palace, what lay behind the glass was the imagination of a 14 year old boy, his head spinning from the discovery of an ancient, mysterious land that somehow lay within his grasp. It would be another 7 years before his dream would become a reality, and even in reality it seemed more of a dream.

The boy of course was me, I had stolen a book of poetry by Li Po, a master words-smith of the T'ang Dynasty, from a friends parents bookshelves. Dreams and reality collided and reproduced in such beautiful clarity within his words, a love affair with China had begun.

The photos in this tome are intended to portray my inner world as I wandered the streets of Beijing for 6 weeks in 1984. Shot on a hot Olympus OM-one using 400 Ektachrome slide film and extended exposure. The weather clear blu and always well below zero, I stored each roll in the freezer of my hotel and pulled them out as needed, in the hope that somehow some of the frozen air would be frozen onto the image. Stupid really, but I was young full of lies, alcohol
and trying to capture what in essence for me was a waking dream. Somehow, by blind luck and rampant stupidity I managed to capture a little of that quality.

We mistake the market for the nation, one billion people consuming a single timezone, feudal, colonized, now canonized as a Mecca of capital. Corporations and national leaders implore us to
view China as a percentage, if only we can monopolize 2% of the Chinese sock market,
we shall forever be wealthy.

Neglect history.

In many ways we still see this vast nation as a product of the age of colonization, a Victorian image, from when a weakened corrupt empire crumbled before the might of the west gunboat diplomacy. Now the last legacies of this age are being returned to their rightful birthplace, Hong Kong, Macao, are back in the embrace of their nation.

If you view this as an evil being visited upon an innocent, then read, history is not owned by this century or last. The political structures that exist today will not exist in a hundred years, Tibet will be free, Hong Kong just another city on the coast and with a little more yearning on the part of the average Chinese, economic freedoms will be matched by political and personal freedoms. The Chinese have never known democracy, it is as foreign to them as any other imported concept. History they do understand, and more than us they understand that their forebears watch over their shoulders. While we would desecrate any tomb for the "good" of all, the chinese understand that the occupants of the tomb are as alive in spirit as if they still walked the earth.

china 84 part two (a)

I never pretended
to be an ease of knowing
never have fallen inside
a category filled
with swimming butterfly's,
yet I give without asking
for return,
return without
asking to give,
still I desire,
and demand,
and strive to attain
thoughts, actions, deeds
and these too
are as natural,
as filled as any
box you wish
to place me in.

kate
a vision of beauty
smiles,
shimmering in gold,
rimmed in silver,
brings my gift of fire
to her lips
asks for lemon, salt
my sight dreams
of the licks
of sweat beading
her graceful splendour
and the mezcal slides
into the recesses of oblivion.
the birthday girl,
all bravado for 3 months
of abstinence, decides
to re-enter the burning,
her head spins,
her voice trails,
her face wanders
to that place of darkness,
le petit morte,
but her beauty never wanes,
she is the birthday girl,
gathered from the hillsides,
and we are blessed
to witness
her birth,
her beer,
her buttons,
her.

How far can I go?

can I move beside you
in a crowded room

my hand

beneath your sweater
beneath your singlet

liquify one finger
round your nipple

cup your breast
im my eager palm

circling in massage
to carress
your navel

how far can I go?

she walks away so slowly
detaining her steps
to manoeuver the seconds
to minutes
and time buzzes
speckled, bedazzled,
swept into her beautiful
blue eyes
reproducing
the skies of dusk and dawn
over the pinnacle
of all earths natural grace.
her arms are forward
lifting me in sight of the goddess
within her thrusting intellect,
proud and driven by a talent
rare and ambitious
her ego pure
in itself, assured
and so glows no shallow
conundrum of petty rivalry.
she wants
and so she
receives all she
desires,
knowing the reasoning
behind loss,
swept along
accepting the gold
which sprouts
in her arms.
and do I love her
for all she is
all she will be
all she can be
for all I would
wish of her
fulfilment.

her smile
light dreaming
through
a prism of diamond
the sky bleached white
runs blu
round the worlds edge
while red cream dragons
chase ghosts of bad luck
from rabbits to tigers'
in a single phase of the moon
Me, I have sat to long
on the
sigh of the sun,
and blistered
I call the day into a cup
awaiting the cool froth of darkness
to waken the hidden reserves
of nervous meaning in my soul
and meaning is the love
I crave, the love
hidden from my touch
the love, that is denied
and votes to depart with laughter
for my shy resonance
is hollow
before the hallowed
grail of beauty.
My touched has
fallen yet again
into a spiral
a vortex
of stumbling words,
where once my tongue would waggle
before this simple intoxication
its silence verifies
my limped green stagnation
and the blooms of turquoise
are algae
on a dying lake,
the neck of a black swan
breaks free of the surface,
its dull eyes wallow
beak empty
voiceless and entwined
cries for a single
red flower
to bloom.

I miss
the knowledge
of your presence,
knowing that
u r flowing through
these streets
that your breath
is mingling
on the winds
with mine
that when i
bridge my thirst
with clear water
from a tap
that it has
fallen unbroken
from skys overhanging
we two
and wound
its course
through a river,
a dam, a filter
and a pipe
to split
at the intersection
between us,
one drop for your lips
one drop for my thirst

Luna
I prayed to the moon
(my lover,
my sister,
my mentor,
my confessor,
my atheist souls god),
for deliverance from
this cold light
betraying my heart
and she delivered
in contradictions
in pain
in a shell of
hardened blue
moral steel
in beauty
i cannot touch
or reach
without bringing
about my own death.
She answered,
as always,
wrapped in a conundrum,
the leaves of a tree
bathed in her
ghostly glow
drip with
clear living water
and i can only watch
them fall
into barren earth,
while my lips
parch and crack,
my throat,
to dry to breath,
wetted only
by tears,
and these tears
i no only too well
for they are the
wellspring of frustration,
to love
to see
to bring air inside
this cage of flesh.
I know only
what i can immerse
my self in,
this shallow soul
and its ocean
of salted failings.

pale triangles
of opaque flesh
fall into my eyes
as you slid from
wall to floor
and flowered
in my vision
a reason to breath
one more hour
upon the air
with which
we share,
for its all
we share.
Memories are
thin films
of tension
gliding across
those times when
she chose my glance
above the night's sky,
memories mingle
to form a whole
of all we share
for its
all
we share.
Her skin wrapped in blue flowers
her cheeks rouged and singing,
her eyes dancing behind facades
of dark glass,
her voice a distant, half turned
echo of mislaid laughter,
her lips a golden touch
upon my sallow cheek,
her dancing goodbye to greeting arms not mine,
and memories are lies we share
and all I share
is her memory to me.

...............................................................

there is no poison in this chalice

no taste of bitter almonds

to press this flesh to melt

just longing to re-acquaint,

whet my parched lips with her scent.

I fall to earth

mortal and bequeathed

only the darkness

that is everyones due

and in these precious hours of sunshine,

before the sun resiles its differences

with my being,

I bask in the supra-heated air

waver in the hours

bleached by her presence

for when she passes

from my light,

all incandescence amidst frivolity,

the skies blue fades

the suns heat trails

the moist air evaporates

and I am left to ponder

my shallow souls

natural repose.