it’s real when i’m kicked on the pavement & the breath of earthen plaster stuffs my throat & heartache. but nothing is permanent anyways. do i follow scale the mast when you reel. this excessive cruelty makes me spill, slip my knot but how to drop when the air…
To Drink
A conversation in a bar. On barstools. An alcoholic. She live at the bar. She lives in a bar. She’s homeless. So she lives upstairs. I came in to steady my nerves. Not that I need it all the time like you said you do. You said you need it every day. I only need…
battle plan for bullfight
there’s no I anymore so shut it. what image. what unexpected turn, juxtaposition, if you feel disparate, funked- up, in a funk & the pathos is lost on the audience – the pills attack the pain Here, & Here. my plan—————————– i suppose my limitations – if i break & when I’m…
Hay Shed
Weathered and old. Shabby and grey Abandoned, alone Forgotten and left. Standing, silent. Stubborn and hard. Flaking planks folded across his chest. Patient. Waiting. Silent for years. Bursting with bales And secrets he kept. And so I ask What do you know? My secrets. My loves. Remembered I wept. Wearing a…
zigzag
no-one hears when you call like wind cares if you live build the wall. the wall. keep yr mouth shut after the night you’ve had dreams give it away. what good. there’s something to be said for. nothing to be said, oh, city – london, say, bustling w the dead, ashes; gold…
long live the revolution
– is miracle was unmade lit the match that made the flame burning hear us is no app smart enuf i smite am smitten w love yr indifference hear us if- only-because unmake me everything me fish winged things everything made not in my image is nothing these theological…
Playhouse
The dusty taste of chalk and the smell of a friendly old blanket on the floor. Milky sun through flappy plastic windows. Browning sellotape framing where it tore. Built from a car crate, the splinters made the games more real. The bridge of a battleship. Calling the shots. A hospital ward. To heal. …
Eliot Ness Is Getting Cranky
Eliot Ness is getting cranky He needs to land a punk I expect bloodshed Two dead is a bad day He hates triggermen, sly-groggers, guys (and broads) in rackets Chicago is teeming: Chancers with tommy guns leaning from the doors of cars When he meets a doll he runs his fingers over the brim of his…
Two At Autumn
1 Black cows graze at fence line young bulls, watching me bowl. Ball after ball after ball to one batter, an Opener. No one else arrived to face as I hit my stride bowling tall with movement barely two wides in it. Run-up timing perfect working on his weak-spot rib high, not quite leg. Sweat…
The Futility of Lawnmowing
Another hour on a grimy mower. Wheels guided, in their rut. Engine’s harsh rattle rumbling dull static in my gut. Engine hour counter clicking over inevitably. Anaemic autumn grass regrowing defiantly. Endless, pointless route. Up and back. Up and down. Monochromatic stripes. Verdant corduroy lawn. A fuchsia streak cuts across the green…
Summer Laundry
Towels and sheets caressed by purple fingers on each rotation. A shirt’s casual sag masks its desperate reach. Arms straining for frayed cuffs to be dabbed with perfume. A composed pillowcase squared-off in knowing ease that summer’s heat will lift the scent in wafting waves warmed with the sound of bees. Simple genius. Planting lavender…
L
Friday prayers. They are us. Tears rolling down. Flag half mast. Looking in the mirror. What we want to see, reversed. This is New Zealand. That hate is here. It hurts. The diagnosis is in. A pus ridden sore. Time to cut it out. Complicit to ignore. Yes. This is New Zealand. …