 © Phillip C Gordon I know you are there I know you are there Sometimes when it down pours I smell you amongst the drops At night when only the wind Scratches at my window I hear your voice between taps When days hit their stride And sharp sun plays with shapes I swear you are walking toward me I know you are there My body shakes to be held Tears of the strangest kind fall Silence is filled with laughter I know you are there What veil must I lift that I may know you whole What song to sing that will Carry you on my breath What shape must I form That you will dare to rest inside I know you are there Soul Lonely Street On lonely street Reserve Conviction Formerly Now Sweet tempest let the howling of wolves
Mystery train The soul will lack and the train will ride Can get your kicks from a higher plain A sailing ship's got sails and keel Can make a prayer to avoid your fog You still ain’t on the eternal train
Politics I do not seek through I do not wish for your reason No for I awake to another day For this is mine
Collision Fish Head Soup At night you could smell the pot of fish heads brewing on the stove. It was the singular thing that his neighbours new about him. And the strange clashing noises that found a different silence in the ears of those straining minds. Evenings pacing the floor in the company of words spoken to imaginary visitors would keep the clock ticking. The stench of cigarettes on the wings of smoke drained out of the always open windows to signal the man was home. Corner of Wellington and Cambridge, a large Queenslander converted into nine separate flats. In winter it would drop of a sudden and chase the days warmth into the distant memories of barefoot walking, and replace it with a well worn roll neck jumper that carried the stain and history of a life caught in a constant shuffle from house to house, city to city. Making up a living from strewn bits of thanks that washed up on his steps in passing moments of glory. If he could he would have a pistol in his chest of drawers. Not to use, but to hold on those occasions when it all meant nothing, when the last breath seemed so eminent, a pistol to remind him how easy it would be to take it all and throw it away. How easy it is to trivialise the little things that give meat to the narrow bones that hold his fragile world together. Those days when he stands over the toilet bowel holding his cock in his hand and shaking the last drops of piss off and still not being able to leave, frozen with his cock in hand, waiting, waiting for something to happen. Anything. Just something happening. A pistol a cock, how fucking predictable. Folding it away like a blunt snake charmer. Fish head soup. The optimal way to make a fish head soup is to let it sit for a day on a real low heat as it drains itself of its own oil. It sits there simmering the sounds of eternity. When it rains the stench of the city creeps up the valley to tussle with the green leaves of all those stolen plants stuffed into pots. It is the new world war, concrete and slush in combat with aching roots of life. When there is a fish soup brewing neither can compete. Pacing while the soup makes itself. How many circles can he compose on the wooden floor before he becomes bored with his own sound? The hollow tread of boot on wood beating time at its own game. Somewhere in a corner sits the black dog howling. A shadow within a shadow, a single companion to witness a stolen life collapsing. Feet bruising, black dog baying and fish soup toiling, an ménage à trios of self incest. This moment may never end; eternity could be just this, nothing more, a collision of smells, sounds and apparition. Of course he was as attentive as a mother, he had never once in all his years allowed the soup to betray him. When someone knocks on his door it is for the simple reason that they want something. No other person comes calling, the collectors of sorrows lining up day after day with hopeful well intended smiles affixed to wayward notions of salvation. Strangers all in a stranded well strung up street. Did he stop his feet pacing before the knock or did it come to stop him. The kind of knock that comes from a familiar face, a certain tone definite of occasion, a celebration, a reason to laugh and drink heavily. Standing in the dark of his room with the dog’s head tilting to the side, motionless and quiet. Waiting for the voice of reason to say something, to break through and create action. His dark caramel eyes shifting to the set of pink draws. Wondering if there is a pistol wrapped in moth eaten underwear. The next coercion was more timid, apologetic, concerned with decorum. Now the wheel had turned and he was the master once again. Knock knock knock. Tap tap tap. A hole in space from the pistol hammer of will. Fish head soup. Slow melting of oils tending to itself with heat alone. Across the melody of time, floating like a drunk in outer space. To the door. To the only door. A glass door. A well draped door to conceal even a thought. The squealing hinges wining open. The woman was a mistake. Her smile banished itself in the tight hands of embarrassment as she witnessed the brooding features emerge, wafting amongst the pungent scent of fish. I’m sorry, I was after someone. I’m someone. No, I was after another someone, someone younger than you. Her laughter fanned out across the porch, tuned to the sound of church bells. It’s curious to note what makes any of us smile, what causes brevity in the instance of a long exchange. Seconds both extend and compact as a piece of stretched out liquorice. He can only stand and watch. Black eyed dog at his heals lapping up the exchange. Fish head soup setting a tone. What are you cooking? Soup. It stinks. Watching again with black dog eyes. Did you know that it is not the note you play, rather the pressure you apply that makes the impact? I’m sorry to have disturbed you. You didn’t, I was already disturbed. Her head tilts back and peels again drawing the sun to shine a finger just there upon her face, orbs emerald raining down a song of daemonic force. That’s funny, you’re a funny man. Thank you. At dusk there is a moment when life stands still, when the day hangs steady and the night refuses to come. This particular light transforms even the dullest of facades into a palace. It is a play of light that opens a door of opportunity that will have you choose a direction, a new experience, or the old worn and torn. It is a trick of nature to remind us of the possibilities beyond what we can normally see. Phillip C Gordon © Phillip C Gordon |
Rick $9.95, $9.95, a red sale ticket$9.95 a price for his wares $9.95 not for the faint of heart Your generosity carried no such tag. Mouth open beaming of a smile Diving high, lets tap head bounce jazz Through a push and stir of unveiling $9.95 like apple pie or pears or plates Your Yiddisher Mamma cried for you, And you sat like this. For nights, nought, naught, nothing. Until eyes gleaming and glistening Raised you up again Grubby glass counter With a stuck down penny Totem, tempter, tease. A burning van bon fire On the front lawn Wine to sing, brandy to fight A London Gin for stories Somber Raven like, knocking. Tapping at your door That one secret you kept From him, from her, From us, from you. Hiding one part, the other Full strewn blazon, madly wild Amongst angels flight And human flesh $9.95, $9.95 Like a Jesus feeding Friday night drunk Paddy Fish n chips friendship Boy to father staring mouth open At a mystery, a mighty mouth Of dreams and themes Layer upon layer of place And race passing through Your door A them park of heart A river of sturdy mercury Crazy dreamer slush fund One off, far off Made like this no more. Mood of contradiction I am a mood of contradictions I am a mood of contradictions I am a mood of contradictions I am a mood of contradictions I am a mood of contradictions absence taste of ones own home The dark long night of contemplation Sitting beside the road The valley opens, full sun. In the evening you begin to sing.
My Love In reality I can promise you nothing. What is it you bring I hear you ask I bring soft rain that will silence our voice I bring you silence, I bring you waiting mystery
"The Make Believe Man" The last page of my one man show What a waste, a complete fucking waste. Get out of my head stay away from my bed! When you smile mean it. If you don’t I’ll stich it on your face. I’ll carve a million smiles across your body. You think I won’t, try me. If you cry for me make sure it’s not for you. If it is I’ll make sure you choke on your own snot. If you do cry I’ll hold you in the depths of my compassion, I’ll stroke your hair and sit with you. But if you think your tears are mine I’ll make a potion from them so bitter you’ll wish you were dead. If I offer you love and you think it’s for me, beware, my wrath is a thousand thunderstorms. Love is fierce, it burns, love does not wear hair gel and satin pyjamas; love does not smile sweetly. It is the marrow in your bones; it is the cliff you refuse to jump off. Don’t offer me your love with sugar, don’t hide behind your losses; sugar rots my teeth and losses are the stuff of revelation. Don’t refuse my love blindly. I will carve open your eyes. I don’t object to you telling me what you think of me. But don’t assume I will worship you. If you insult my soul I will spit in your face. Don’t think because I’m gullible I cannot see. It is a greater fool who hides behind his strength. I will drag you in to the raging furnace of life kicking and screaming. I will listen to you; I need to hear you. I will sing with you. I will laugh and swap stories. I will dance across the stars and wrestle the mighty oceans. But don’t think because I’m born to adventure your petty intrigues interest me. If you want to sell me a morality tale take care that you don’t wear false teeth because before it touches my skin you will be swallowing it. If you have a philosophy to share you’d better be living it. For I take my own apart everyday. If you seek to reveal your deepest fears and suffering, if you wish to wash in the waters of your own sorrow I will sit in awe, silenced by your utter beauty. But if you want soap go to a chemist or priest, to a healer or game show host. I want to smell your fear, to taste your love, dive in to your heart and emerge drenched in your history. I want to hear you say I don’t know, and laugh at that. I want to watch you fall like a child and weep out of confusion, clamber back up and laugh with delight. Don’t offer me your world unless you are ready for mine. I dine on life. I love life. I love sex. I love food. I love music and dance. I’m lost; I’m on fire, alone, fearful, I’m determined, stupid, clumsy and rash, I’m honest and loyal, I’m filled to the brim with love, and completely and utterly mad. But I’m here and I will stand in front of you until your eyes sting with my presence, your soul cries out for its own voice, your heart bursts in to flames as you dare to dream, and you gaze at me in absolute inspiring awe for what you see in me is you. |
