The Old Train of Melbourne

We all should escape to Melbourne,
away from here,
away from people like clocks
their metal clicking,
rusting and ticking
into the asphalt earth.

Here in Melbourne,
a cranky old kind train,
whistles from your childhood dreams
a soothing lullaby that hops across the lake
to caress our tired skin,
gently undressing our roots.

Everything,
including Mr. Train,
and our dreams and summer skin,
breath in awe the presense of the Atlantic,
our home , my birthright,
the dream before this one,
and into which all of this and us awake.
Thats why the air has the colour of drowsiness
just right before waking up.

And, as I sigh,
wondering what use words have,
or what they mean,
sea drops dissolve throughout my being ,
whispering thoroughly:
you are but a shore,
your dreams an ocean bed.
"Just let it be".

Will Loss drown ?

How can you ever be happy
while loss playfully puffs
bubbles into your hair
and caresses your sweet spots.

How can you ever be happy
whilst that innocent child
ever present behind you,
ever washes your deep sunken fear
with its laughter.

Yet , how can you still be sad,
while the chubby lips moisten
your ankles into the creamy dust.

Oh tell me child,
tell me fluently with our tears,
how do I tear your heart out,
and feed it to our thirsty bones.

For I have fallen
and the fallen are my beloved,
and nor your putrid sweetness
or your creating soul,
shall wash away our salt from
your domain.

And when you reach your door,
And in remembrence swim up our echoes,
don't cry for us , don't sob,
don't plant happiness or swallow despair,
just let the winds carry your scents
towards dreams like us yet again,
for the harsh cleansing of dreams
needs awakenings still,and forever,
unless the child drowns in our salt.