Where in the world is Hunter?
Who is doing anything?
Strange to find a similar Dagger-Man or would-be;
I suppose.
Solidity in the situation
Funny to meet a simpatico in the City Round.
These New York impressions are amiss
Abound and unfounded.
These are a kind people ready to talk and flirt.
Rewarded by the French.
An American Bulldog owner in the cold-breath, oblivious night.
We are well,
Sharing this space and these tremendously feral hands
Crammed into a spigot no bigger than Moby’s,
Dick.
Measuring, ourselves and our character.
Swimming against the streaming wildness of our quenched thirst,
Strumming the guitar with no strings.
Stringing along the people in our lives,
Ourselves.
Calling our mothers and talking about D3 and Australian Rules football.
Creamy-cries for healing truth;
And not through God.
Asphalt-green-fence-jumping-creatures of the future.
I love the night!
And the dreams, which come.
In need of pardon and the evening re-done.
Crazed and crushing the “White Fandango.”
The selfish stumps of these fingers
Stressing the times when they stop.
Strengthening the wild horses in the deap fissures in the world.
Faltering,
A Point of return.
DANIEL MORTON 2011
DANIEL MORTON 2011
