Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5726 Jan 22, 2013
Why my worn out eyes?
barely have they observed reality
and they blink
they crack
they darken,
they don’t want to know more.

To what purpose this succession of colors?
The spread out hand for a new face,
the precise answers
and then…
the same nothingness
and the room with shadows
without any of those faces,
all reduced to constant
reflections on the mirror.

A feeling of seeing
the spectacle
and turning the lights off.

No one can suddenly drive away
the shadows that dwell deep down;
scraps of so much,
on that which we are
alone…
without ourselves.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5727 Jan 23, 2013
I have forgotten the symbols
The forms of the letters
The sound of phonemes to cut the silence
I do not know how to write her name
And much less how to pronounce it
Motionless, on a desert beach
She is wearing the dress of salt given me by destiny
There are no signals or tempests during the day
And at night multitudes of stars silently ignore the need I have
To know their names
Wet sand daily buries my bare feet
Do not remember the grass, nor the cement, or the shoes
My hands in an effort to grasp the air
Lost the mobility of long ago
Long ago…
Long ago when I knew little and felt little
I knew of love in the sea
Of the salt skin in my mouth
Of the warm present of her silken body
Not mattering the sarcastic gaze of the fish
Long ago I knew that her saliva sated my thirst
And that my greatest possession was in the fine silver threads that crowned her head
I have forgotten the words,
The phonemes, the numbers, the dates
Like a child coming back to the world
Understanding nothing
Feeling everything.......

The emerald green iris she had have come out from the orbits to look for the code with which I deciphered the world.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5728 Jan 23, 2013
Just as I wonder
whether it’s going to die,
the orchid blossoms

and I can’t explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure

comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower

opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.

Even to a bright eyed
blonde haired craggy poet,
it’s purely erotic,

pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world,
a spoonful

of earth, and water.
Erotic because there’s death
at the heart of birth,

drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,

deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my lover,

who grows, yes,
more beautiful
because one of us will die.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5729 Jan 23, 2013
"EXCOGITATING."

Dozing, I go over the human face with microscopic eyes. I go over a nose lightly sloped, sweating near the nostrils.

I am a look on a face with a nose that thinks. I am some millimeters away from the skin that shines, my eyes are the eyes of an ant, and the face a mountain range.

In front, under, up, submerged in itself, absent-minded. Indifferent, without imagining being looked upon by something minute.

And I,—the inconceivable—, know, that this crease near the nose on which I am now walking belongs to a face.

Astonished, I freeze: how can this line, this sweat, this sketch of a cheek, be a face and even a name, a history, a period of time?

How can, at the same time, this portion of grease and heat go further than a name, a history, a period of time?
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5730 Jan 23, 2013
So many absences all the time
that I can no longer name them.

Rain falls behind the tears
and from the courtyard rises an odor
of damp earth and apples.

Only ghosts live now
in this house
-hieratic specters
that have shed their flesh
and their silence-.

I cross the bridges of time,
while memories fall
changed into murmurs of stone.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5731 Jan 23, 2013
What sounds are those, that are heard
from the pale forest
of your drenched mouth?

What potent fruit nourishes
you in your city
of empty time?

What stone dares shout for you
from that Herodes of straw and salt
which stirred your blood?

What saint about to fall
collapses now between warm veins
that tear open your wound?

Altar wise
by owl- light,
my imagined life goes on
by the power of someone death,
precarious prince at the sky’s edges,
who permits me to speak at the fire of war,
to tell my shadow in the alchemy of water
where to name a light is to picture the night,
to open a chalice at dawn’s intention.

Here the dead hold sway,
where someone, maybe a god,
slave of rain,
a melancholy ruler of what was,
avidly opens the silence of blood
in the night’s vertigo and its fear
so that he might say what is, what burns endlessly
in the cups of dust that drizzle his thirst into vacuity.

This is the hour when I may know
what was torn from my history,
the fragment chiseled over a cold surrealistic night.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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
wonder
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.
They

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

Brisbane, 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…

No,

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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, Australia

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

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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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

Brisbane, 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."

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