Archive
Not For Nothing
Most eyes are looking for other eyes.
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Love Your Disease
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Winter solstice – rain sleeping in the clouds.
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The large majority of the time, we are just comparing the size of our idiocies.
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So so-so!
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Where do you hide in an empty room?
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There’s too much of everything.
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The planet grows bluer.
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I’ve got more dark corners than a circle in the night.
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be as humble as a door
as humble as a toothbrush
as humble as
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Skindrinking the breeze…
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Wind-grabbed / star-washed / drizzle-rinsed / night-dried
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If you want to laugh, look at the back of your knees.
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The big dream is smaller than us.
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…clouds, moods…
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The immense desire to be the water itself – where the clear ocean rests in warm pools over ancient rocks.
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I’d climb out of this hole, but I can’t feel the sides.
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Every dream with a soundtrack!
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I’m still afraid, after all this time, to write that list of the words I overuse.
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Killing the spider, you become more ugly than the spider is.
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Now noting knowing nothing.
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i am where i be
i be where i am
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Couldn’t see the face for the eyes…
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There’s nothing above loving.
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Just before you die you will suddenly be very young.
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I take your point until it stops me.
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Matt Hetherington is a writer and musician living in Melbourne, Australia. His most recent collection is I Think We Have (Small Change Press, 2007). He is also on the committee of the Australian Haiku Society. Some current inspirations are: Amon Tobin, Grant Caldwell, and plain old sunshine.
Orphanage
(For Ian, Again)
Old enough to remember.
Your silence woke me.
Lights out. Nobody at home.
His hand got stuck in the postbox.
In the dream, you made me go to the front.
You can’t return what you stole.
Each heart, side by side with night.
He hunts himself.
Liquid from both ears.
Were there receipts for slaves?
The petals were bait.
I was untouchable; you were unreasonable.
A friend knows when to turn the lights out.
Briefly, wounds are touched.
Slim, rusty.
They themselves are proof.
Show me a pub with no fear…
A pool in the liver in which to drown.
It’s not my business, but it pays.
You’ll never sleep alone.
Nightmare: everyone stayed.
Atheists feel like bastards sometimes.
So many feet! So slowly!
We are all going home.
Again and again and again and a gain and…
In your dream, you were still alive.
In one night. All.
Inspired by the poetry of Ian McBryde, particularly his book of one-line poems, Slivers (Melbourne: Flat Chat Press, 2005).
Matt Hetherington is not a poet, but he writes poetry, and has so many sides he’s round. He lives around Melbourne, Australia and his last book of poetry was called I Think We Have (Small Change Press, 2007).
qarrtsiluni 