Smoke Encrypted Whispers

Samuel Wagan Watson,
born 1972, is of Bundjalung, BirriGubba, German, Scottish and Irish descent. He lives in his childhood domain of Brisbane, but still feels the lure from time to time of his teenage stomping grounds of the Sunshine Coast. He has worked as a door-to-door salesman, a public relations officer, fraud investigator, graphic artist, law clerk, film technician, actor, and arts bureaucrat.

His first collection of poetry
of muse, meandering and midnight
won the 1999 David Unaipon prize for unpublished Indigenous writers. In 2001, he published a collection of âroad poems' titled
itinerant blues
and a chapbook âhotel bone' for Vagabond Press. He is also the co-author of the award-winning website, âblackfellas, whitefellas, wetlands'. In 2003 Samuel toured throughout Australia, New Zealand and Berlin.

acknowledgments

Several of the poems in the new section, âSmoke Encrypted Whispers', appeared in
Heat
and
Southerly.

of muse, meandering and midnight
a prelude

dropping a knife

on one's foot

is nothing like

dropping tequila

on one's tongue

yet

her floral dress

begged me to...

whereas the night

well,

it just stayed outside

magnesium girl

I was kissing the girl

with magnesium breath,

all over me

her burning hot magnesium

ahh to touch

the boundaries of delight

and pain

for you only hurt those you can love

when lust becomes a mercenary

for the weak hearted of humanity

the magnesium breath

inviting me to her bowl of splinters

nothing but the frozen tears of her last love

picked up in the rain

and our relationship,

a shrouded threesome,

death always being

that silent partner

oh that magnesium girl

with the strawberry hair

how my black flesh and rye once lingered

to be one with you

my magnesium girl

after 2a.m.

I wept along with the night

two

black

hideous dimensionsâ

myself and 3a.m.

releasing a crystal tide of bottled insanity

while the shadows mocked

our embrace

and from then on

I knew that forever

night

would be my mistress

back seat driver

love me

oh back seat driver

love you

into a state darkest under covers

and wilful damage of day

entice me

oh back seat driver

to the dove of peace

maybe your bulldog tomorrow?

with any luck from yesterday

save me

oh back seat driver

from the bitterness

of phobia waste

and packages of human frost

kill me

oh back seat driver

for an older audience at dawn

and with my blood taken

make a name for me

nothing else matters...

on the river

it was a drive through the sleeping industrial giants

and thirty minutes before a flight

along Brisbane's vein of union disputes

to a secluded spot on the river's edge

with its cold sea breezes and dead things,

we kissed

and said goodbye

discovering that we both had feelings for deserted factories

and abandoned mechanical bits

and for each other

thirty minutes before a flight

and two writers can't find the words

to ease the tearing of departure

serenaded by a blow-torch on a rusting iron hulk upon the water

grey smoke billowing from the old power station

the landscape studded with electric fences and weeds

her and I at home amongst it all

we kissed

and said goodbye

waiting for the good man

we kissed goodbye at the terminal

and upon seeing you for the last time

I felt the good man leaving,

the good man that existed in the hotel room

the good man that loved you across the table, linen and fine wines

the good man that appreciated your perfume

and ran his fingers gently through your hair

catching in his rings as for you he listened

for the laughter while resting in your breasts

I felt the good man leaving

as if I couldn't convince him that I'd changed

that you had made a difference

and that I could breathe easy in the darkenss of early morning

I felt the good man leaving

and now

I'll be missing both of you

raindrops fall in vain

for Rebecca Edwards

raindrops fall in vain

and abuse

the kindness of my soul

I hear them landing outside,

an audience to a short-lived affair

continuum of vertigo, a song

soothing,

yet, absolute

a spiral dance to an unwelcoming ground

where they are of little regard

but slaves and remedy to dry spirits

that one can envy such courage to fall

in the open

and share their end

alone

chloe in the window box

in the darkness

it's increasingly difficult to find the corkscrew

and Chloe in the window box

with that bottle of pinot noir

or the memory of her

that left six months ago

and light no longer shining through

her window

where as a sentimental act

we clasped and watched the stormbirds

that no longer cross the shoreline

Neptune no longer taunting

peering through his transparent keyhole

no more 2am's

cut out of the darkness with a corkscrew

and as time stretches on

a distorted picture of Chloe,

an empty bottle of pinot noir

the postman's privilege

most typewriters spit out

that exact decibel

like the coughing silencer

of an assassin's weapon

or the sound of the postman's bike

through the walls of my boardinghouse room

through the walls

the postman is my assassin

blah, blah, blaaaaah, blaaaaah, blaaaaaaah

the maddest allegro to haunt me,

I dare not look out

I am a ghost of my own doing

waiting

for the knock-backs from editors

for the “we'd like to pass your work on to the senior

literary editor

before we make a decision”

for the debt collectors

and finally

the letter that says,

“please come home”

musing: the graveyard shift

for Sarah

as I enter a writers' graveyard shift

sheltered by a desk lamp

a lover is nesting within the covers

breathing softly

paper and pen on the window ledge

third floor

overlooking the river,

dark wet stretching leather

red buoys flicker

on/off

signal thoughts to the writer

on graveyard shift

looking for inspiration

in poorly lit boats shuttling past

the crew all strangers to me

as I am almost a stranger to the person in my bed

promises made as solid as the murkiness before us

where sharks hide amongst it all

vicious, devouring, still-life anecdotes

the ideal machine of consequence

and still, still

with all this darkness

no inspiration

a day of sweet caressing,

the best of my thoughts

whispers in the linen

across her body

into her eyes

chases away the dark creations

filled with something that felt like love a long, long time ago

hands left shaking

unable to paint,

a dark portrait of self

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