Mutilation
An unscarred child in the womb.
there is an image but no meaning.
born into knowledge of nothing
and promise of everything
the inescapable drive to know yourself creates the voice
the body gives but cannot speak of.
inside the skin of a child
I push the cruelty further until there are bloodlines
and reason.
the unbearable flesh
the face of my mother
holding me, still her child
when these wounds create a voice in response
to the drive of longing
and a love conceived
in fire.
Collapses of Breath
Riddled with distance cannot remember the momentary framing of time
without this connection the day palls itself against thoughts consistent drive
as the imagination preys on the senses unceasing recollection
again emerges restrictions pulse along the nerve ends
whatever passion has exhausted cannot be revived
skin worn by a harsh distance in the breath dancing across your face
where you rest alone in your body I hear your voice before you answer
I interpret the silence traced along your breath. with your flesh in its course
of abandon. when winter comes your skin withstands the wind's visitations
It has been months since I have touched you all longing sitting down
inside the body your expressions recurring
I cannot remove your body cannot take your hands from my skin
your promise of permanence I predicted would collapse in the drive
of your ambition for an emptiness you felt belonged to you
you could not find a love of yourself my love of you fracturing within your irises
still I love you never forgetting the rise and fall of your chest beside my body
these days assault the skin with exposure to regret knowing completely
severing all ties to your body and remaining unchanged
I cannot silence this urgency beyond the contortion of time
my body fails at this vast distance the blood ceases
does not pulse running along the veins with the unending uncertainty
of waking the distant positioning of my body with no way back to you.
The Night World
Today, the year begins
with someone escaping
the bones of scattered footsteps
touching the asphalt—
I am not inside these words
and beyond the sky is silence.
the sound of a person crying does not mean what you think it does.
here, when the earth becomes an ache, you do not need to run.
I will whisper into your eyes
and let your tongue
become a stranger.
your body is fixed to this room, emptying it of everything
especially when you are not here.
you are the voice that moves
the rain
and flesh that will soon wake—
I'm telling you
there is nothing else.
Robbie Coburn is an Australian poet currently based in Melbourne. His poems have been published in various anthologies, journals and magazines including Poetry, Overland, Cordite Poetry Review, Westerly and Going Down Swinging. He has published a collection, Rain Season (Picaro Press, 2013), as well as several chapbooks and pamphlets, and his second book The Other Flesh is forthcoming later this year.