Peter O'Mara: th[e] broken

the broken wings   of spent birds, flying until overweight
with pollution & a closing sky

                              th broken promises      that saw a short,
dry cleaned pedestrian questioning his small existence
                                                                                           only later,
                                                                a reduction in afternoon

                              the broken child   confused in a   mix
master of red-brick dust & mother's [underrated] cooking


                                                                                             th broken voices
beside an unused lake, the view beautiful to the unharmed eye

the broken package of blunt genetials re-inventing themselves
as consumable Art &
god

                  the broken radiator          flung hard against conversations
about   the Whitlam years, uranium toothpaste,                 closed
insomnia & other                                                        forgotten miscarriages

                              the broken sound of two mountains banging
together in the middle of Israel & indifferent prophets

                                                                                       th broken narrative
homogenised in a plastic wrapping of expectant public hygiene
and lack      of attention to the word:   nature

                              th broken fences keeping the small distance
b/w my first masturbation   & the bible   sticking against my skin

the broken fridge door         slammed after a morning walk into
the stick forest                              once known as everything

th broken geography                           of slow unremoveable breast
cancer and my dead mother                              wanting to die

the broken flesh that surrounds the boundaries of my flannelette
                                                                                                             pyjamas

                                                                                                      the broken sibling
hiding under a carcass pillow of                    heroin like a swollen bedsheet

the broken verse submerged in an unfathomable blue sea of multinationals,
nameless thirst & hunger

th broken ideal begun in front of 200 white skinned males without any
                                                                                hint of revolution

                                     the broken light seen
catching a passenger train, moving across my suburban paths, and finally
resting, illuminated like a yellow scrapbook

th broken furniture                                                                    wanting a smaller room

the broken toy borrowed a thousand times
without                                  repair, tin eyes                                   and a considerable skin                   

                                  the broken poem
like a naïve pilgrim entering a neighbourhood milk-bar only to see his
own image tattooed on a cigarette packet

                                                                               the broken man found
nailed between the naked walls                             of his own white bread sandwich

the broken dreams                                                      & dream.

                                                                            this sticky tape life.