The Bee Hut (5 page)

under the clapped-out

safari jeep engine

as we bump bump bump

along the rutted

bone-littered savannah

searching for cheetahs.

Wolfgang wheels us past

bat-eared foxes and silver-backed jackals

staring from termite-mound dens.

Wolfgang cranks

our necks skywards

to vultures clotting

the branches

of a lone umbrella tree.

We thrill

to his sharp eyes

and gifts of surprise …

Am I redeemed?

Or is Wolfgang's

proud scalp

now my tank's most authentic

pickled star?

T
HE
F
REAK
S
ONGS

A song cycle written for performance
with the music of Jonathan Mills

THE MALE SEAHORSE

Sung with passionate pride by a
conspicuously pregnant male seahorse

I brew

the impossible

I hold

the impossible

eggs! eggs!

that grow that grow

in my swelling male

belly

I hatch

the impossible

me

the pulsing star

exploding!

I float through

the impossible

the mess the mess

the milky mess

of fathering

I am racked through

the impossible

my pain! my pain!

squirts my brood

into the water

What does

the impossible

tell me

tell the world?

What sacred puzzle

have I unfurled?

What freak mystery

swells me

with wild wild joy?

THE WINGED HUMAN

Sung with bitter disillusion by a man
with uncontrollably f lapping wings

Wings, you took advantage

Wings, you promised

the earth

Wings, you promised

the face of God

Wings, you said

I would feel his holy breath

through my hair

But like any seduction

you were just

a cloud castle

You promised me

ecstasy

You fluttered prettily

like swan's down

You told me nothing

but dangerous lies

Because now

I flap

in terror

Because now

my feet don't

know me

And can't fly

a straight line

Wings, turn me around

Wings, my freezing blood

is longing

to be earthbound

Wings, you took advantage

And now I fly

in fear and trembling

Wings, you promised

the face of God

And now

And now I fly

like a kicked sod

You promised

you promised

you promised

the earth

You promised

the face of God.

THE FRUITS OF ORIGINAL SIN

Sung with yearning by a suited man
with a dripping peach for a head

The fruits of Spring

are in the sinning

The smells of Spring

send my blood spinning

The tastes of Spring

make my juices roar.

Where will this

sweet rotten season

lead me?

Will a golden snake's kiss

enslave

or free me?

The fruits of Spring

are in the sinning

The smells of Spring

send my blood ringing

The tastes of Spring

make my juices

soar.

My heart

a spitting passion

fruit

I waft

in this luscious air

The bright red apple

hisses like a bright fire

and sings to me:

The fruits of Spring

are in the sinning

Where will the seeds

of my lush paradise

sprout?

The smells of Spring

send my blood spinning

To what peach poison

is my nose

stringing me?

The tastes of Spring

make my juices roar

I bite the apple

I lick the fire

I kiss the sweet sweet snake

I die by the sweet Spring's

sword.

CAT WOMAN

Song of seduction by a woman
dressed in a red latex cat-suit

Purr and claws

Purr and claws

Like a smoking ghost

I pass through walls

Purr and claws

Purr and claws

My nine lives

floating like gossamer

through the caressing air

Purr and claws

I always land

on your paws

I am your silky

black magic

I am your gentle teasing

death

let the witch

dribble my name

through her tortured

cries

let the witch

call for me

call for a gentle

teasing death

through the agonising

fire

Purr and claws

Purr and claws

I am your

silky black magic

I am your gentle

teasing death

you're lonely

without me

you long for my

wild soft breath

Purr and claws

Purr and claws

Be my willing slave

I'll be your burning

chore

I am your

silky black magic

I'm the gentle teasing

death

you want and adore.

THE VEILED LADY

A slow prayer sung by an enormously fat
woman with a bag over her head

Lord God

I am my most nakedly

yours

when you can't see my face.

Lord God

I am most open

to the slice

of your gaze

when you can't see

my face.

Lord God

Lord God

are you teaching me

a shame

that burns like grace?

when you can't see

when you can't see

my face.

Lord God

I live like a worm

in this dark.

Lord God

my foul and bloated

flesh

pleads for your sweet

surgery

are you teaching me

to love

a shame

that burns like grace?

when you can't see

when you can't see

my face.

IMAGINATION

Sung with hypnotising allure by a counter-tenor
dressed in very dirty black silk pyjamas

I'm your real world

I'm your bottomless pool

of sucking

black mud

trust me

trust me

I'm so soft and warm

and dirty

trust me

trust me

you can sink

so sweet and safely

right to the calling

and calling

bottomless

of me

I promise

I'll make the journey

worth your while

trust me

trust me

the dark and fabulous

things

you'll learn and know

from the dissolving roots

of your hair

to the soft slow burn

of your lost lost

toes

the dark and fabulous

things

I'll show

will never leave you

will never let

you go

I'm your real world

your bottomless pool

of black and sucking

mud

I'll seep right

through you

I'll change forever

your bones, soul

and blood

I'm your real world

trust me

trust me

I'm so soft and warm

and dirty

trust me

trust me

take my journey

take the plunge

you can sink

you can sink

so sweet and safely

right to the calling

and calling

bottomless

of me.

THE BLUEBIRD OF DEATH

A woman is dressed as a metallically glittering bluebird.
Her breasts end in sharp points, each breast like a
raptor's beak. She sings with a relaxed, deadly irony.

You live your life

as if you and I

share some sweet

understanding

You live your life

as if there's a secure cage

for my clipped wings

you're planning

You live your life

as if some gullible god

gave you the upper hand

You live your life

as if you can hold me down

and suck me bland.

(Threatening change of mood and tempo)

Don't fool yourself

my love

Don't kid yourself

my darling.

Sniff the air

Test the weather.

Smell the storm

of burning feathers.

Smell the storm

of our terrifying

flight together.

The day we go

you won't know

The place we go

you won't know

You'll learn, my love,

you'll learn, my sweet,

you'll learn

your bluebird

is not your lover

is not your mother

You live your life

as if you and I

share some sweet

understanding

You live your life

as if there's a secure cage

for my clipped wings

you're planning

Sniff the air.

Test the weather.

Smell the storm

of burning feathers

Smell the storm

of our last and final

flight together.

The day we go

The place we go

Only I will know

Only I will know.

L
UCKY

TRAVEL

Waiting on a reeking strange

railway station –

then the dead-quiet but crowded

night ferry.

What country

did I travel from

when I was born?

What alluring bait

made me leave?

William Blake

as he was dying

craned forward

towards a country

he'd always wanted to see.

His rapturous curiosity

always

an unsettling inspiration.

The Venerable Bede

embroidered his metaphor

of the brevity of life

after watching

a sparrow fly

from one darkness to another

a living flash

through a torch-bright hall.

What lives

keep leaping

to and fro

those pregnant black tunnels

of being?

On a bold day

my own footloose

soul

can smell a good

sailing wind –

the dare

in Blake's shimmying-up-the-mast

last breath –

and then crawl

snug and wide-eyed

into the downy

undercarriage

of Bede's plucky

traveller bird.

SISTER-IN-LAW

For Jenny

Until I met you

I always believed

I lived in an outlaw's space

where family remote or close

could only be

blood or ghetto

and any gay,

determined to make

their own way,

will tell you straight –

blood is no reliable

home

nor fix

against intolerance.

Until I met you

I was content

to keep my Melbourne family

simple.

my lover. my cat.

my books.

Jenny, believe me

my cosy grumpy cocoon

had not planned

for a sister-in-law

as sweet, as insistently

inclusive as you,

to release me from my own

lonely prejudice too.

LUCKY

For Andy

There's a damp melancholy

in T'ang poetry

that smudges

the lovely jade

precision.

I love Walt Whitman's

spunky company

but under his bardic

whistling

I can hear his lonely heart

howling

at the turned back

of some deaf rough trade.

So many poets

starve

in the cold faery spaces

between their frost-bitten ears.

How lucky I am

to hear you, darling,

coming up the stairs

to smell the coffee

floating ahead of you

like my favourite incense.

FOSSIL FERNS

For Rachel and Sam on their wedding day

When the shy garden

of fossil ferns

indelibly inked

in my sandstone path

was frond-green

and under dinosaur foot

it was a hotter different world.

Things change –

but some beautiful things

even in their changing

wondrously remain.

Like the magical space

that love creates

where strange

even fabulous

plants can grow –

not to mention

a thundering hungry reptile

or two.

I won't say

best of all

the humble fern –

I like a pterodactyl

in the hand

as much as any girl –

but how lovely

to watch over a lifetime

these exquisite fern amulets

unfurl.

LAST ARIA FROM
THE ETERNITY MAN

From a chamber opera composed by Jonathan Mills

I always knew

Eternity would smell

Like a cold salt wind

I always knew

Eternity would be

A wild a wild

sea

A wild sea

That will climb

The highest cliff

A wild sea

That will growl

Through the rocks

A wild sea

That will hiss

From the deep

A wild sea