rock’n’roll sutra

          rock’n’roll sutra

waves that last
the length they
were born to
rising to fall
swinging to straight
fist-waves raving
more born in
the rising than
the going of them
what drives this
ocean of space
to ripple so
into the brink
of order in form
to fall out of
these forms again
a song we took
to the quick
of heart
to the core

11 april 2015

kill me

Would I step upon the man I was

as I would the grave; walk away

from the shrill light of day, in new

skin; the white din of gulls on the spray;

thru the moon-lit path, like a white

line across the blackness of my heart?


Yes, ok.


30-31 October 2015

Poetry I’d Handled Till It Softened

& Would Not Stand On Its Own

That’s me, at the Mirror of Remembrance,
I’m wearing a snakeskin cap, I think
it is real, it says leather on the label,
it states, in tart magenta-pink
embroidery: ‘Skin’. Not sure what it is
alluding to, but as I revisit old poems
short of being finished it won’t feature again,
it was simply a starting point, I want to blend
these reasonably accurate reflections
into one account, and see if you can spot
the join marks, like the transvestite prostitutes
you could hire to study the phenomena,
see where it is that a woman’s breastful
body becomes a dude again. One evening
a tall brown sheman came out of the
doorway shadows from the top-middle
of William St., into Darlinghurst, came out
from the group of fee-males and crouched
in front of me, stoping me, and grabbed my balls
and cock in both hands. All I’d done
was smile, and nod as I walked downhill
toward them, nothing acknowledged in that.
This criminal offence, if I’d complained
of the gentle but secure clasp in her long look,
could put her in lock-up, it qualified him
for a beating were it some one less
my tangent nature. They were forbidden
solicitation, apparently they could be there,
available, for the science of the joining of two things.
His hands, her, she completely held my genitals
a squatting six feet of maori athletic
in a tight fitting dress, cigarette in her lips,
the smoke lit orange and grey and red,
while inconceivable consciousness, like vapours
from a water heated, mingled or pickled
or looked for the notes reincarnated
Awareness sends organised systems
into a human knowing of car horns
sirens braking and acceleration,
the Consciousness, or better, Recognition,
worse for wear, my dehydrated mind
perceiving rounds without a world, growing firm
in her hankering, my hands tangy
with the smoked joint, just starting on the
first cigarette, I wasn’t going to pay her
for anything, but she knew that feeling
me firming looking into my reddened
socket’s dopy grin, nothing said, gives it
one last shake and says a noise not unfriendly
and not unlike a hiss. Story it is,
happened it did, gone, those times, I’m glad.



really, it’s just a scratch

It’s nothing, whatever happens,

and it’s better for me

to be like nothing, less

than a shadow. It won’t matter.


But who knows how her flowers

grow…now; in my cellar. There’s

wine and the dank air blends

fine with the cold salted meats

stone and brick and bread that’s

hard and good to eat, and death

like the remnants of a pig

hung and quartered.


Indeed, I did swing

upon that hour, hated

by the angels and their enemies,

and I fell like a dead man falls.

29 October 2015


We are lost in the misty gorges

Where the water hangs

Pendulous and shiny

Waiting for earth’s pull.

We are lost on the road to nowhere,

Looking for direction

On a sweeping hard corner,

Losing control on scuttling shingle.

We look to the horizon for guidance,

Seek the truth of time, yet

It is stolen on the wind, and we turn and turn

And see nothing; not the crag, the hollowing gully,

The stony peak. All gone.

On days such as this, when the tears press hard,

When all is there yet lost – dripping and pendulous,

We are called to that road to nowhere,

Sweeping and soaring to a darkening sky

The Crack Container

The yellow Volkswagen
by the blue green sea
has someone in the back—
they’re fast asleep,
dreaming of the Japanese
order of things.

The sea has a dark green ring
where the horizon starts
like the outer edge of the eyes
and after the horizon, when it’s dark,
like the pupil at the centre of the eye,
stars will appear, furthering the air,
expanding space, a minimal
comfort in the van, with the woman
asleep, the side door open
dreaming of the light
which doesn’t need dark,
a light that has always been there.

Too long awake
and you crave the dark
the dark which can’t be disturbed
or dismissed as something bad

people want; and the dog
on the chain
by the corrugated fence,
rattles his links
from the poll the mallet
has put in the ground.

Has knocked his water
bowl upside down.
He can’t find shade,
his owner isn’t home.

The dog pants hot,
is about to give up,
one more lunge
and his collar comes off

and he’s over the fence
and onto the road
and off down the street
to the stormwater drain

where the girl is
snoring on her back.
The stars are there
so an I exists.

On closer inspection,
your waking face
has the same horizon
in the blackness of space,

the curves, the colours,
dramatic sense
in the bright lit

of patents pending
for weather control,
the atmosphere conditioned.

The crack cannot
describe the glass.
There is high end
order to the chaos cast
in the patterns of light
caught in the fleeing drops
as the dog shakes dry;

if you go down
upon your knees,
and look in close
at a spec on the grass,
the size of that field
and the fields of stars;

Galaxies cluster
like grapes on a vine,
and the big vast nothing
between things, Time.

Yes, she knows,
waking in noise
the crack cannot
exist without form.
The separation,

is where
Time comes from,
she says, mysteriously
dramatically, alive
to this, waking
at the cracking sound

of a dog’s head chasing
her salami around.
He is caught in the bag
with the bread and cheese

the cask of wine
the strudel slices
it could be a crisis
as he runs in blindness
onto the road

by the carpark under the pines.
And the risk is now, with these
characters down, the loose
dog free, (coaxed with meat)
a travellers’ van,
the chain on the pole
with a collar on the ground,
the upside down bowl
with the sun on the steel,

the poet’s task is to take their real
for granted.
The dog dislikes
where he is tied
there’s a beating waiting
with a new tight collar.

And the girl had a dog
who died of old age
the month of her 16th birthday.
She kept his buckled leather.

Will anyone notice, anyone
who matters, see
the girl
leave town
with a dog
on the passenger

And later at the beach,
fishermen, a fire,
the sky going dark
being driven outside
by the waxing moon
to cast the reef

the depth of the black
and the reassuring flames
the horizon fading
and the seaweed crackling
the driftwood melting
in the physics of it all.



koh samui
an island its
round of beaches
the blood-warm sea
grazing the dark
of evening
with her her sister
we were sitting under
the thatch looking out
to the mainland
unknown line from
which we’d come
watching the clouds
hatch dry lightning
light stitched across
seconds of sky
i wished myself
there in the lightning’s cut
where things like
disappearance invisibility
self in a new coloured shirt
a ghost’s hand on your
shoulder happened
a rain of bright tree frogs

another storm
weathers blown out
of order trashed that night
in memory
all others like it

she her sister
i once knew now unknown
somewhere else i
see the dry storm
in a summer sky
far from where i am
wish myself there
in the shattered light
where things happen.


for love

     for love

when my aunty
heard the news
her grandson
her ‘boy
she’d say
killed head-on
just starting
to fit the frame
of a grown man
she stopped
dead in her tracks
two days on.

she had lived
though years
of rationing,
long silences
out on the farm
moving to a
small town
with a park on
the edge of a
pine forest the
state highway
tore by
everything a
marriage did
and didn’t bring
could take it all
yet couldn’t
take this.

she died
for love.

september 2011

I look to the emptiness still

I look to the emptiness

still; the pool rippling

like jewels in streetlight.


Tonight there is no moon.

But me, and you inside me

beating still.


The water is beautiful,

and the air is still.


My boots soon

shall start


the long steps

to you. I will

one night


turn away

those melancholy waves

that turn this night

so gentle, stir

the black and bottled greens

or die wandering

the darkling trees.


27 October 2015


there are ways to walk,
tread softly
I would hear you speak in lilting tones
there is hope displayed, in crinkling laughter
the lines around your eyes, portrayed

the mists of time cloak us, invite stillness
where did we wander years ago?
the sun ignites ,an earth is trembling
moon draws ocean, on and oh

the trees etch beauty in the landscape
carpet, colour, catch, the breeze
sway or bend, in dancing torrents
rise and fall us to our knees

In love with life, or just playacting?
moods can swallow whole, our mind
let the muse, lead  boldly forward
backward looks will clocks define

chime chime time

Dark Lane

In this sunless alleyway

shadows slap damp walls,

propped up by scissor legs

beneath pouting slash smiles.

This is the place to meet

trouble and pretence, a packet

in a curled hand, to feel the

city’s tubercular heart.

Slits of bouncing light

seek out dusty corners,

besmeared lips, the frosted

coolness of glass.

Linger, if you dare –

to feel the lane’s pulse.

Harlot’s lair, dealer’s den;

a contract made, paid.

Don’t leave now, son.

Darkness beckons.


I bear it more

when I think of your

suffering so,

in love. Keep it,

as you do,

though it burns,

that secret jewel.


But I knew.

Like veins cracks

showed in the eyes;

and the skin glowed,

turned pale; and all

of your fingers

were broken.


21 October, 2016