John Kinsella

The Fugitive Writings
Four Fugitive Poems of John Heywood


They never-never me,
in my difference
between rock
and hard place,
mining companies
paying Fred Williams
to paint a singular scraggy tree
against an exuded backdrop:
that’s narrative,
our story,
our Cenzoic conversations,
tektites glowing
art deco,
otherly glass,

The Sand of Frenchman’s Bay

In the heat, as of snow,
pressure point reprising
equal and opposite reaction,
fresh water running
out of stone;
here dead whales floundered
and sharks brewed,
such clear water,
King George Whiting
tracking abruptly
changing direction, altitude,
as swimming against the current
you occupy more than buoyancy,
data and consequence
shoreline softly cracked,
looking out
to land that surrounds
the bay.


His death brought name-loss
and family heirlooms,
packets of letters,
that tooled Bible
from the end
of the sideboard,
grabbed by the black hole
of regret. It gives us
displacement in pseudo-jargon,
a projection of: light
in his paintings, uneasy
perspective, memory
devoid of sexual reference.
It was made clear
in his will: burn to a cinder,
let ash fall like pollutants
into the lives
of the active.

Archimedes’ Principle

The lacklustre patch of lawn
coated with red silt, sensed
an increase in pressure
as water flowed
downhill with greater intensity,
Wondering, she momentarily
fused with her lawn
in its struggle and surprise,
against heat
and mosquitoes
and a generator
barely driving yellow light
in her dark house,
pallid through curtains.
he sank below the surface
of the dam, unable
to see his way
up through
a lack
of light.

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