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Hello Friend


Playing my old guitar ,
Old days like dead stars, falling apart
Memories hold me back, they’re trying to Steal my dreams away
I’ve never seen such a lonely heart, making my six string Rot and stale.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Please don’t forget our time she said,
the time when we played and laughed away
the time when you kissed my soul, my name
for all to see who loved us just the same.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away,
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Oh I see,
you played with me played with my name
My soul feels tired, it wants to rest now
my heart is broken it needs to be fixed now
Just go away get the fuck away,
The time has come for you to go home now.
Just leave me in pain, let me be how I know I need to
I cannot be broken I am not my old six string.
Though I’ve lost my name, but soon I’ll find it.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken, has lost its name

Lost property

If only it had been my
tenuous faith that had
slipped loose and away as did
your final parting gift.
That locket with the picture
of birds (not seeds) flying free
from a dandelion.
But, I the foolish one
not ready for the day
or hour of its undoing
I forgot
that the clasp
was broken
that all flowers
wither and die
that birds scatter
at the sound of the scythe.
If only I had engraved
your name in it for all time.
Then it could fall like a seed
for another life to treasure.



the maple
i stood
under so
many leaves
in darkness
so much
in them
like water
on to
the air

midnight, 24 january 2014
nelson st, howick

the joker – a play

the joker – a play
reference to the joker as he appears
                   in the traditional Tarot card pack.

does it get better?
i don’t know,
but worse,
for sure.

i took to the
road a muddy
path at dawn
that first
the sea swelling
to the dark
foot of the cliffs
the path
along them
at the
mad edge

i knew
the break out
of sun on
a world
of crooked towns
the ships at
habour rigged
with ribbons
for the

i knew this world
not better but

the path no
wider than a
a moon
on the

the ladies
handed me
their perfumed
cards sought
dalliance with
my wrist set
my skin aflame
i woke among
their flounces

the path i
drank more to see
it at the bottom
of the
pale vein
along the back
of the hand

no wider
than the edge
of a gull’s wing
as fleetingly

i saw letters
left after
it like the trail
a snail leaves
across stone

a maid of
good features
and kind as
a spring
bade me
rest away
these worries
i almost fell
asleep my
head on
her lap

saw it
just then
in a thinning
cloud against
the evening

heard the sea
afar walked
to the edge
looked down
into the loom
of the tides
the shuttle of
waves sped
along that
shore a
thread in
it of
i stepped
into air

does it get better?
i don’t know,
but worse,
for sure.

march 2010

Hominid The Revenue Device


There are no shadows, my land faces deep close abundance,
the commercial vessels have gone out to ocean; their sounds
initialed pre-dawn as I lay on a bone of myself so I decided
to get up and go toward the sound of the hollow clunk of bins,
loaded smoke and the diesel stagger of the cold short engines
of the tractors shifting the boats. The netters’ seawet empty
trailers, the weed hung around the rear guide poles and the
parked sun waiting behind the peninsular

were all exact tremendous things. I wanted to sharpen this
‘bone’ whittle it down to a ‘chip’, locate the reason for
the chunk I’d lay uncomfortably on but the new feeling of
light undressed that, and I wanted only to look
at the landscape and builded structures of dwelling and
commerce change with the altering f.stop.






Hands in my face,
the eye beds
figuring, I, me
and myself.

Losing now,
has everything
the child
had in
no defence,
and I am finding
all the extracts,
the laying lawn
has taken
my old

The damage
coaster dips
to try, again
a chilly

You all don’t get it,
hanging out your net,
my fingers only
tickle at
my bloody biggest

But, please forgive
my painfulness.

© A2Kdavis 2016

Thoughts On The Expansion Theory

Keeping in mind
the heliosheath
of our life span, our

aggregate knowledge
through the combined
history of life spans

is inadequate
to say anything
with the certainty

of emeritus
professors to universal

Things may be expanding
as do lungs
inside of a fully stationary elephant

someone deeply asleep
When the cycles number
a.m. or nightshift

the alarm goes beep
say, the strumming of harps
and tinkling chimes

and we awake
17 trillion years

in duration
plasma physics
preventing fullest

collapse back into a
series of big bangs.




Simple words

Masters of a dying art.

Claiming knowledge,

While hiding the truth.

Consented manipulation,

A primitive necessity.

Painting pictures,

For the select few.

Failing true total transfer,

Too ashamed to reveal every thought.

Wondering words creator.

Feelings, thinking without words.

Simple complexity in raw truth.

Grasping the gravity of the unknown connection.

Say no more.

Much more.

from: Pocahontas, Alcoholism, The Compass, & The Word.

The shadow 
stays dry as the waves 

For almost a full decade I
have not used the strong
drugs of illumination
yet the hunches gather into
something formidable, the
doorways in space are open still,
but I nod & I indicate again
that I decline, feeling
I could tear along the dotted
line of beach, rip the ocean
from the land, twist myself
right off calendar time.
Poets, after all…

Walking past the Bars, seeing the
padded circular stools,
lit, from the doorway
in pools of communicable light,
does tempt my song-quest enter
in with Dylan, Berryman, Hank
Chinaski closing an eye on
one of the licentious lady poets
out, after lunch, in search of material,
the younger people vaping nicotine,
the one-toke spot, the single malt
spiral burn turning in the wide
free area of the night, a safety net
of days off.
Isolation is sheer, sharpest

together, it is reaching into
the soapy hot water of the sink
with the knives no one told you
were in there, fly-wing thin edge
on the broken pint knocked off
the stammering table, so deadly
almost invisible; together alone
the singer moans, the unsharable
singularity of two sheets of glass
come together sliding heavily,
easy, impenetrable actual solitude
of being and I haven’t real longing
for that racing of each other up

the smoke, along the white lines, besides,
time & culture have left me behind,
this new team goes off at needle-point,
their confabulated embroideries,
amazing skin being replaced
with idle thoughts, the inklings
scholars classify as primitive
acceptance rites.

more sketches


was i watching tv

when you drew me

nothing to do or too

tired to do it?


the grey

hairs tho are signs,

i think, of intelligence;

and my tight lips,

flaccid skin, i-brow-

s serious: i say,


from the grave

countenance, i was

listening to the darkling

strings of Shostakovich.



it’s weird and i have my own special sickness

which is not of the flesh alone as it is

with animals of the paradisal Garden

copulant in Spring; or in


the mind of celestial-

s which are not

real but exist as Idea

in the Mind which is



I know,

the metaphysic is





i begin here

to understand and there

end it                    all.



i have been humble and gracious,

giving and i have tried

to be humble, gracious

and giving.


i can’t abide the flesh

and stench of ideas;

the otherness of people.


i say Good Morning and don’t mean it.

en mass these guys smile but in-

side stiff like the wood that was

hacked to form communities,


burnt to ward off spirits, cold winds

that hailed from the North.


i have the Form,

like the African

at Oxford, of

the regular

Suit, and shoes

of black leather.


but i’m no mother-

fucking joe, soft skin in-

side hard like, Bone.


i have the stern exo-

skeleton; the uniformed

European who affects

to know no English.




down at the grass.

The mends to grit
and rocketing
somewhere out from

All the haunts
return without the trap.

The Dog House
do not have the old

Laughter is a compass,

© A2Kdavis 2016

Eros of the North

An ancient memory.


The hands that played the whale-jaw harp

and hung that harp upon the Long-house wall

touched the cheek

of this slave from some Mediterranean shore….

I, who heard the cries ….

‘….the golden-haired intruders are here!

Run! run!’

but I could not.

For I am

mesmerised by

blue eyes whose colour

mimics nature in my jewellery

lapis, turquoise….

set in silver

adorning my wrists and neck

where later, entwined upon a bed of furs

your lips were to press

evidence of your passion….

I stood and gazed

heart pierced by an unseen arrow …


You have found me again

and enslaved me

a willing slave, hands held out for chains

following with eager footsteps, for I remember the rewards….

kiss the hands that play the harp

and wield the sword

and bedeck me with amber.


Yes No