Dylan Everett: New Poetry

Textroots. (5 poems)

Text/isle roots

Tree flow she knows no end in the wind and dirt and poison she breath, no breeze no delicate hope, no dirt in the wind, no scope in the leaves that breathe dead stars, we antelope with horns we winged things we shivering motions we broken dreams we all inhale the same dead stars.

Tree flow and rain it comes in plains in eyes from far away, these rains of lost time, these schemes these entrails these endless rays that come down on the leaves that sway, that tribute that might unleashed and breadth of purpose not known. I come I pounce I pride I sway I live among the branches. I gather I distort I dwell I fold. I come to gather branches like antelope horns like rays like tombs like wings like flowers. I come to sing along with lonely trees and breath the song of the long dead stars.

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Particulars

There is only the faint far off trembling of your hands, and a cry that stimulates with passion treasured as though a new horizon. Contrasted against the excesses, blue, blue, petals of theory, straight ray of disordered truth, these brush strokes are straight, these fates and gushing with pretty colour buried deep and ringing, the particulars nobody will recall, nobody is uttering back to the rapture, all like a heavy lullaby, flowing through inner eyes unhinged, and utterly the trance is a delight, and the disaster the disaster is utterly beautiful, we do not see it, and straight like a swarm of directed night birds the time comes, and my flood is your delight, and the old plough is rusted in the dead field, like a child just born to time, oh I imagine many things in my pages and cocoons, here a silk of ink or breath, I imagine many things, in my shadows on the river slowly fading, I imagine, I imagine too many things.

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Teacher of dirt and mist

The gate keeper breathes breathless three eternities, savage and elegant in formation, guardian of antelope, leaping in the stream, guardians of earthly and subtle suggestions, mare that drinks the tender cold, his lessons are marks the march toward the sea, the breeze dealt, wrapped in the mud of what we can bare, all for nothing a secret emerges into unity, there is the cultivation of dreams turned into dirt and mist, the scattered hymn of a body bound in remains, its codes an apparition. Dense are the proverbs of the old, sealed are the wild, sealed and remains of immortal balance I do not see, I stand because the earth has beaten me up, a cell flows into the draws of sense, to remain an organism old and young, multiplied as though infinitive, this dare to teach in catacombs living in disguise, my deposition of internal faith, comes and fades, promises broken in spontaneous light, drawn with care, in the colours of a sun set mind.

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Tending instincts

The treasure rising with the tide, and resting on the rocks of guardian storms, thrown like ashes, a subtle art of borderlands, as he walks in disguise his accomplice of shadows drifting drifting, the contentment of the exiles, drifting on a plain of unseen pleasure.

Anonymous swell of secrets form and gathered clouds unsurpassed, as times desire rests in rules of change, subterranean dreams of gravity and masks of place, unfold on darker paths, beneath the godless skies it breathes, divine fragments bound in rhythms, that forge another greatness as they fade, to unspoken reverences and promises once made between relative strangers.

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The equatorial plain.

Reeds sway and the idea of the sun alone is felt, my text/isles sway and wait, entropy toward unchanging shores, and twinned death, in absent things that hunt my name. Omniscient trickles, the onyx bird in rhythm, the lord of his eruptive orbit through mezzanine shadows, his squawks in Spanish gold, old suns, distant rounde, distant and near in winged death. His celebrity not known, his transmitted disease, suffused with suicide, yet transported in vague clarity, vague certainty, transfigurative ordeals, about this way the equatorial saint, the middle of a bird in flight and bound by magnetic lines, magnetic rhythms. All lost in cosmic shadows and old suns, all lost and nearing the equatorial sin, the slender in the dark, the bodies cast in endless passion, endless.

About the contributor

Dylan Everett is a poet interested in putting forward a kind of writing he describes as formless lifewriting, poetic/nonlinear narratives.

Dylan Everett
Dylan Everett is an Adelaide based Australian poet. He has a background in visual arts and poetry. He has previously contributed poetry and visual art reviews in Broadsheet journal, and been involved in visual arts/writing projects as part of The Adelaide Festival of Arts. He is a previous contributor to The Blue Nib

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