Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5732 Jan 23, 2013
An instrument, waxed and shiny,

Can stick to moisture on a naked chest,

With strings taught and ready,

Gripped by one and caressed by another.

He drove to the garage and let himself in,

With the guitar resting snug on his shoulder,

Endless hair obstructing all but his fingers,

Concentration absolute.

With only the beeping fridge,

And dripping tap as accompaniment,

In the dead of night.

He strummed to coke cans,

Chocolate bars and porn,

Ignoring the aching in his back,

As the chords cut the silence,

In the back of the stockroom,

A rodent audience gathered curiously,

In the shadow of his lover.

It was no sooner set to the ground,

As it was in his arms again,

Each time the notes grew stronger,

More lucid, more extravagant, more overpowering,

Strings eager to improve on their last.

The Guitarist played until his fingers were hard,

Ridged and yellow from smoking and strumming,

And practising, and adjusting and perfecting,

Endlessly, as he had no timepiece to adhere to.

He continued every night and every day and every night,

Until his scent was that of his muse.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5733 Jan 23, 2013
I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with a huge lake with ample inlets and outlets.

This lake is a canvas for clouds that drift away,
slowly, like the leaves fallen.

Or say, it’s more like a girl

whom I’ve never known and I’m sure
I’ll never know.

This girl secretly leaves an infant
on a pavement and disappears from sight.....

And the crying baby is picked up

by a kind couple.

This is easy and hard, two in one scheme.

But I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with the lake where the boy stares
at his still reflection, and where

he gains a tremendous strength.

Or say,
it is the stone he hurls into the lake
to distort its trancelike quality.

It is the instant
when the ripples lap

his rumpled reflections.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5734 Jan 23, 2013
she liked her men
spare and sparse
lean of words
without flowers in their hands
their shirt sleeves rolled up
to show the world
how hard they lived,
their legs tucked into boots
as thick and dark as calluses

she liked them sprawled
elbows on the table
at dinner
their forks demanding her attention
spearing the meat
like clean kill
chewing with the gusto
of young rams
their teeth reminding her
of how devouring was
a holy act

and she would dream
of those hands
curious beasts of prey
skin freckled with the grit of stars
and gravel from wrong turns
making paths across her blouse
pulling her skirt up
to meet their questions
and of how her throat
would buckle
like it had no will
at the whisper of her name.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5735 Jan 23, 2013
At my reading
every day
language breathes
down my nature

on the podium
losing myself
in stolen words
as kisses

making out
in a roll
of my tongue
capturing solitude

with a scrappy
in a blunted alembic
of a life sentence

soon to be
reflected on
graffiti walls
and then translated.

At daybreak
by the ice pond
escaping parental storms
in a ninth year,

and captive
of the used bookstore
in disappearances
by tall shelves
digging out chapters
with an itinerary
of large silences,

red eyes half open
by unseen volumes
under a solitary light
the young hand
climbs up the ladder
beneath the stammer
and shyness
of a forgiving nature
with a a few coins left
from an allowance,

and you, Dylan Thomas
all in blue under cover
is taken home
to read in private
when no one
is around.

United States

#5736 Jan 23, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
My other name is DeVine....They call me a poet.
Actually, we call you an idiot, Sybil.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5737 Jan 23, 2013
Discordant the piano
spears through the Gauloises cigarette haze,
allowing her scarlet words to ooze through,
with their promises

of longing
and love
and death
and heaven
and hell…
and everything in between.

She sings to me, though every man in here will tell you the same.

They’re lying, of course.
The barkeep chases a three legged dog
through the open door.
It turns back to look at him contemptuously, before trotting, free, into the night.

Thoughtfully, I draw circles on the table with my shot glass.
Would that the easy flow of cheap scotch could carry me away from here and to your door,
Or maybe you’ll find this poem…


this cry for help,
and come for me.

She runs her slender, perfectly manicured fingers across the piano lid and looks at me,
though every man in here will tell you the same.
They’re lying, of course.

I briefly squeeze my eyelids tight together,
and pour another.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5738 Jan 23, 2013
I live my life inside my patio window.
It’s here, at my business desk I slip
into my own warm pajamas and slippers
never seeking Jesus, but comeing to terms
with my own cross and brittle conditions.

Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,
the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves
go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,
behind willow tree bare limb branches
they lose their faces in somber hue.

Their voices at night abbreviate
and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.
With this poetic mind, no one cares
about the seasons and the slants
the wind or its echoes.

I live my life inside my patio window.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5739 Jan 23, 2013
Perhaps it is the birds,
their small bright humors,
bleated notes, masks,
as they swirl about the house

Or the sky not yet ruined by rain.
The whirr of small planes,
pampas grass in straw air:
all light & airy
as a place that hasn’t seen tragedy.

Three yellow apples
hang as in dementia
upon the tree, its last leaves scraped clean
by wind.

This bird, and this, and this,
thrice happy, their own Burleske—
Strauss performed
in nook & cranny.

The willow emptied of tear-shaped leaves,
the wires hung with pigeoned iridescence.

When to break off?
When spare a bright, high-spirited mood
for one’s lover, when all’s dressed down—
lake gray, sky gray,
the mood closed, remote?

I stare down the barrel of a gun, he said.

A bulky bird, buff-breasted, fine streaking.
Abrupt, well-spaced notes—
two high, ear-bursting.
A whistle,
then choo choo choo, three in a row,
ended with the song bird’s amen: a trill.

And the land beneath the land—
a sewer of water
running catacombed
through Lethe’s redundant rivers.

The great hall of winter, its drowned
Ophelia arranged in portraiture.
Face up.
Not meant to be seen nor heard.

Drummed rooftops,
suburban homes besieged.
As Ben stands
below water in The Graduate,
wearing scuba gear.
Another reaper?
Youth this time.

Loneliness is always in the middle…

What body to ear the unceasing.
Dirge-drum, thrum of water pooling in eave,
sifting down to gutter, droplets
on greened wood, moss-faced.

Fracture of sky & lake, bird scratching.
The cricket with its bow,
the hemi-facial spasm in my right eye.

Dirge, triplet, waltz of the waters
over houses in January.
Each droplet caught
in its own physics—
to thrall and thereby dissolve.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5740 Jan 23, 2013
Skewered like St Sebastian

by the savage purity

of line and angle

his arcing off is clean-cut

as tempered steel, her anger

worn too smooth to bite.

Their hearts pinched

to the practised hardness

of a fossil

each orbits a void

they both deny,

their trajectories

burnished clean

of those small kindnesses

that once defined their love.

Yet there is passion

in their symmetry,

a cruel precision

complex as any genome,

the circularity

of noughts and crosses

implacable as a glacier

scouring tracks

in living rock.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5741 Jan 23, 2013
A night of turgid dreams leaves me

with Marilyn Monroe’s autograph

written in a ghosted memoir.

The signature bristles and preens

as if writhing with ego.

I’m sure it’s authentic although

the memoir appeared years after

she died of excessive marriage.

Suicide was an afterthought.

Her famous marriages bent her

backward till her spine warped

and her overexposed breasts popped

like paper bags. She regretted

certain roles, but not the last,

in The Misfits—her co-stars,

like her, doomed before the film

earned the audience it deserved.

If I dreamt up this signature

in this book with orange cloth binding

it seems real enough in daylight.

Fondling the memoir I detect

the pain of composition raving

still in the unconscious ether

to which she consigned her spirit.

Would an autograph dealer pay

full value for a signature

that however authentic occurs

years after the subject’s death?

I’m keeping this to myself.

Without touching I trace a finger

over the graceful holography,

certain I couldn’t have forged

this elegant scrawl in my sleep.

Everyone believed her murdered,

perhaps by government thugs.

But the way her autograph fell

from the dark suggests how gently

she entered it—her name, although

not her own, derived from a species

we love all the more when extinct.

Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5742 Jan 23, 2013
It was a cloudy, humid night that I found her,
dark with no noted star in the street-
only a streetlamp's glare,
blurring its attention on her,

or perhaps a movement caught my glance.

There, a thickly huddled clump
of slow compacted shadow, many limbed
in the light; blotch-bellied and centred firm.

She'd stopped (with all her legs), sure as shadow.
The surprise of being met perhaps equal to mine,
for there she held, giving nothing away,
remarkable in her concentrated poise.

Her wariness didn't last, as with a sudden urge
she mounted forward, advancing with a rower's ease-
the whole current of her body oozing forward...

Careful though, as she steered to one side,
then checked, as if to slip from near presence:
away from the wall, each leg a careful fluent aim,
caressing air in its angled fall...

Artful in her walk, almost a ballerina.
The lamp showed up her tousled body:
a grossly bobbled thorax bunched with reddish hairs
tart as pollen, delicate as flower filaments.

Finding grass, she assumed anonymity-

conscious, it seemed, of a watchful form;

and there, startled back to myself, I left her.

Stray leaves leered over her shadow.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5743 Jan 23, 2013
Several extremes of pleasure and pain

(one for the road, two for the show)

Hopefully I can see you again?

(three in the park, four in the dark)

Or maybe, you’ve missed the train?

(five odd phone calls, six new curve balls)

Which I think would explain….

(seven old ways, eight great days)

....your change of heart.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5744 Jan 23, 2013
valentine’s day omelets

and egg one, egg two

knew the story

as the vowels sang out

from our eyes over the cappuccinos,

two hot plates

rubbing against one another

on the tiny table
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5745 Jan 23, 2013
She said.....

"I undressed

one hundred per-cent off

the bliss I was in

when you said

that your heart was

a once in a lifetime

super sized special offer

with extra love thrown in

then again

you did have

an erection

credit where credit’s due

the sex was fantastic

but all spent out

your pillow talk

became a rich irony

of sweet nothings

about no obligations

no commitments

shame I can’t return your offer

as ‘unfit for purpose’

I hit the supermarket

with red puffy eyes

cadbury’s chocolate

buy one get one free

but there was only one left

chardonnay £4.99

or two for eleven quid

crap offers

I can’t seem to refuse."

Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5746 Jan 23, 2013

At first, it was bliss:
he gave me the world for a house,
and made me its dame.
And it was the morning of life;
each dawn,
the sun spilled her gold in the lap of the sea,
and bought me a day.
I’d spend hours in a trance:
beached like a cat in the sun,
heat stroking my skin
with her fingers of gold.
Or lost in the trees,
light caught by the leaves
‘til the whole wood burned like a jewel
at the throat of a queen.
Or deep in the orchard,
where summer hung scented and ripe,
stripping the trees
‘til my basket was heavy with fruit.
I ate well:
tomatoes, split figs,
full peaches that blushed
like the down-silvered cheek of a girl.
I slept like a child.
The sea rustled close,
like the bustling skirts of a nurse.
Sometimes, I wake
and feel his eyes trained on my skin.
He’s always around,
trailing a footfall behind
or shading his eyes
on the opposite shore of a lake.
Some nights, I build him a fire
with wood bleached by the sea.
He looks at my feet.
He traces the curves of my ears
as if they were shells.
He unfolds my fingers
and plays with the joints of my limbs.
I sing.
Anything goes -
sea shanties, ballads, old rhymes
that keen in the night
like a chorus of wolves.
Yet nothing could undo
the sadness I see in his face.
I twine him close in my hair,
and rock him to sleep.
Still, when he wakes,
his cheeks will be silvered with brine.
He’ll watch all I do with a sorrow
as deep as the night.
And I am still dame of his house,
though it isn’t what I would call bliss.
What’s bliss but everyday life,
keeping house in a palace
whose walls I have already seen?
Each new sun blooms
like the sun of the day before
and draws the same charms
from the same unspeakable night.
And still, the sorrow grows wild and strange
in his eyes,
like he already knows:
knows how my days will unfold,
in grace, in quiet, with more of the same dim joy,
with nothing to alter their sun-kissed course
‘til I stray to the edge of the wood
and discover the tree.
For there’s always a tree:
knocked crooked, awry,
split trunk like the limb of a hag,
bent low with such an unsayable weight of beauty
I’ll know without any doubt
that it is forbidden.
It’s like he already knows
that there he will find me,
there on the edge of the cage he has made me
with nothing,
no angels,
no whispering snake at my ear,
with only the blaze of my hair
and the gleam of my mouth,
the heat of my suddenly naked limbs,
warmed ‘til they burn
by the red, cupped weight of my palms.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5747 Jan 23, 2013
I love the way your inhibitions





with modest ease,


slowing only at your


A simple sort of gathering like

the pursing of your


before the grand descent.

Then, pooling up in that little


beneath the arches of

your feet,

they evaporate there in


a n t I c I p a t o r y


As you again bestow

that grand



Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5748 Jan 23, 2013
You say it’s the new lemon tree
spreading this sweet breath
but for me it’s something else, a locust tree,
its blossoms travelling maybe
with that ready scent of memories,
the season gathering its own solace,
air in its mirror of marvels.
Now it’s early morning
and I’m lacing up my boots for the hike,
the garden green stares at me,
at my hands and head bent forward
before anything: the sun that will grow
on the back of the neck with
a scrutinizing vastness,
the afternoon storm
that will enter the mountains’ gaps
like the violets and blacks
of a lion’s irises;
these and the other thousand things
fearful and surprising
and all the rest that can’t be foreseen
and is the heart of the sky.
But now it’s the trees’ stillness
and this sweet smell
of closeness and newness
that prepare me.
I pull at my laces, I love the tightness
of the boots on my ankles
and the lingering of this leafy
clustering quiet,
early earth that waits
settled and dumbfounded
with its buzz of a gaze
that expands like veins
of quartz.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5749 Jan 23, 2013

He came as soon as he could
His uneasy manner in the hall gestured
That it might be best to make haste for the patient

The air in the front room was cold and filled with piano gases
The polish of half a century
Its musty unvarnished innards leaking a gas into the house
He sat himself onto the stool
His ear listening politely to the story so far
His eye sweeping the patient for vital signs
A bag of tools rattled when he reached to let them down
The polished veneer panel creaked and squeaked
As he prised it from its dowelled clamps
Allison London and Nordell Crane Dublin
He scanned the ornamental gold and silver fonts
He played a ten finger cord and listened as the flock flew away
The Air vibrating to his short tin-can overture
He faded into a more intimate laying-on of hands
His bedside manner had filled the cold room with purpose
The warming radiator clicking and ticking like a broken metronome
A sudden deep horn blew five times and twice again then once
The right pedal creaking downwards to sustain the jagged note
Throwing uneven pyramids of sound up into the mid-morning air
The repeating Morse was beginning to sound like a proper staircase now
A fitted carpet of melody was hammered softly into all the corners
Followed not long after by a sweet rhyme of running footsteps slowly up and then down
He put back the breastplate
Turning the dark hidden hooks around and down and into their patient clamps
He dipped into the replenished well of the old upright
And pulled on its heartstrings
The finest love song softly first and then
Macushla Macushla your sweet voice is calling

Calling me softly again and again........


Miami Nice

Miami, FL

#5750 Jan 23, 2013
Laura Beth wrote:
I'm feeling slippedge
Slip in
Slip out
Of another
Fakedge profile
Stop focusing on things you can't control.
Homunculus Nebula

The Gap, Australia

#5752 Jan 23, 2013
Midnight here has been mauled and murdered.

It’s three a.m. and I can hear the two of them fucking

in the room next door to mine.

He talks more during than she does:

Oh, baby. Oh, Momma. Oh, baby. Oh, Momma.

He can’t decide whether to care for her

or be cared for by her.

God, but I wish he’d choose one.

It’s Friday. Another moonless night, another try.

her dress is green and brown, her legs exposed.

I am staring.

I cross the room

and in the mirror I watch her touch her face.

She applies her lip gloss carefully;

look at my sparkly smile.

It’s the final dark sleep hour when I feel her.

She leads me to the room in silence.

She has wedged herself between the bed and the wall.

Scalded by the moonlight,

laughing and crying,

with her hands in her hair.

Here in Sydney,,,, It’s raining. The air is green and smells of

and static.

She and I are sitting on the back steps. We listen.

What are you both doing?

Her smile is a wind chime.

She does not look back, but silently asks for closeness.

We anchor like two strong stones,

an arm around each shoulder.

Her skin is fever; and she like a candle

in the gray storm light.

It’s a gamble really, this love,

it’s a bet placed, a fuse lit.

It’s a car wreck at night.

And I am the passerby who cannot look away;

my eyes too drawn to the colored lights and the siren song.

And now, the hope.

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