The beautiful beginnings of your arrival to my world and the world slows down as we go.
Its all discovery, its a special faze that our thoughts collect with the same connection.
You are that someone that digs at my heart when I look into the eyes of an angel.
The sun is shining I have got my love in front of me, I can’t wait to see you smile again.
The birds they sing their beautiful songs and the flowers show their splendor but there is still nothing as beautiful as you.
Even diamonds start as coal so give us time to shine, the sweetest things they they burn before they shine.

…. Alpha and Omega the beginning and the end,
Where did it begin and where will it end?
The voice that spoke, ‘Let there be light’ from
chaos, void, where the spirit brooded,
rang throughout the universe.
An instrument of the divines’ voice,
Tis music to those with ears to hear.
Cockles and bells on your toes, she shall
have’ Music wherever she goes’
What are the sources for the symphony…?
That waits; maybe a chorus will greet
from creations’ creatures,
A song from the tribe of birds,
The trill of laughter from a child,
Clatter, banging of cups and plates,
Radio blasting with a song,
Sounds of mornings’ orchestra have come.
The weeping as you’re touched in your inner core
whilst you listen to the magic source.
It moves, breathes, soaks, encompasses,
blankets invades, resounds, surrounds,
permeates, births,
Everywhere we go, in all we do, are…
comes music, song, melody, tune, harmony,
Symphonies, orchestras, beat, rhythm,
Our bodies, minds, relationships, creation,
Instruments in the Creators’ hand,
Where long ago music began with choirs
Of angelic hosts who sang,
Good will and peace to all men.

Eternity waits.

She woke to find him dead,

Her mind went blank,

Time ceased,



She stood,

Eyes wide,

Looking at the lifeless body,

Cold and forever still.
The air rings with the silent question,


There are no answers,

None that mend or satisfy,

Destiny’s seed

Snuffed out,

Never known,

The joy of relationship,

The unrequested gift


A Brother like No other

flower-gloryI have a brother,
He plays keyboard in a band,
Ronnie is his name,
He’s my brother,
He’s like no other.

I watch while his friends jeer,
Call him crazy,
I cringe inside,
He’s my brother.

He wilts quicker than others,
They say Ronnie’s a sissy,
Call him crazy,
Call him a girl,
They tell him how pretty he looks
With his braided curls.

I get mad,
Lash out,
I tell them
He’s my brother,
He ain’t no sissy,
He’s not a girl.

He’s Ronnie,
He’s my brother,
He’s like no other.

They whisper behind cupped hands,
They point,
They snicker,
They grin as he walks by,
They ask their small-minded friends,
Do you see that boy?
His name is Crazy Ronnie,
He must be gay.

I want to tell them about my brother,
How when he plays the keyboard
Magic sweeps into a room,
It transports you to another land,
It fills your mind,
Your soul,
Your spirit
With beauty,
It takes you beyond this visible world,
It’s angelic.

This man who plays keyboard in the band,
The man they know as Crazy Ronnie,
Does not exist.

I see a musician who moves me deeply,
A magician,
A poet,
A seer.

The music
And the musician
Unfold before my eyes,
As I listen and watch,
I see a thing of beauty,
He is talented beyond belief,
Bestowed with a gift,
He is unique,

Simply put,
This is my brother whom I love,
He is like no other.

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

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.

On Observing The Pensioner

Push Her Heart Rate
Into The Transcendental State

I picked her quickly
as a regular
in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors:
sixty something front-on,
28 years old from behind.

The nineteen eighties
aerobics and coke, cane furniture
her mother complained
about, the clothesline
of small sighs, lycra
on the muscle properly.

Her page is never updated
they notice, she has never
added a comment,
a few likes, moved by caffeine
or loneliness, and she does
accept befriending, so
they know she looks
through the obsequious

But they’re asking
each other what
is she running from?
Does she think Death
won’t find her at the gym?
Two full marathons annually
does their dumpling heads in.

And that is where I see you,
wearing your diploma of proof,
junk tertiary bond of our birth
certificates, that your lived life
uncommented, satisfies,
and ignoring it is happening,
Death, without forgetting,
it is likely there are more years
lived than years left myself
but I am putting extra hours in the
pool, the half k more, the hill
instead of once around
the shoe-indented
shock-absorbent racecourse,
the push-ups on the cool down,
something in the headphones,
maintaining a slow heart
oh, the insubstantial of it all!—
sit-ups the crunches
the lawn regulation, world
made matter by our words,
Mind made world by our words,
made sane by our manicured
& manic pruning of thoughts,
sympathetic to the need to expand,
express being different,
cut closely enough the same
true, cut false, into the hedge—
by which, hawthorn or gorse,
I mean the habits approved, life, is our
funeral, the body is where
we come
to die.




Tight Lull Pleasure In The Pride

the nights are cooling off
and little in my heart has changed, that
swing latch
box with sticking hook, the

on the lid to lift a shot
glass, and draw the heat
into the rolled tobacco leaf
order extra p…

nah, bra, bro-ken-deal
I get in my unpissed bed
this is how I roll now, this is why I feel
the same good in the morning
as when the day is coming to an end,
off more years than on —how it goes,
what is lost and never known
sober, I don’t care to know,
nothin’ walkin’ those opposed again,
always something wrong, a type
of fresh anxiety, behaviour
or neglected invitation, totally
untrustable, the poet and his alcohol.

the clean, the dry and stainless
bedding, the courtesy of calmness
as the fish are in the ocean, sit below
the poster of them waiting for yr burger
the floating calm too of birds, or man
facing his death alone, secret smile
on her face, hunted all day, the gear
improving, this sideways walk, this wide
continuously stable happy mind

if mind is what it is
we’re projected from, say ‘into’
and the ‘not said’ is more truthful

there is anarchy shaping but like a light
that can’t stay on, the fitting tampered
with I don’t know anything, said

I hear things, and repeat them
without knowing if it’s true, this tamper;

intro Autumn coffee, awesome cake,
and wandering the park, a notebook
filling up, the art galleries, home
before it is dark, the van temporarily
away the days off the extra blanket
isn’t needed it joins the pillows up
against the glass window of the rear door.






If you think
Adam had help, and there
was more

than one
Eve, you’ll grow
on, living

in little

like the
white flowers
wild yarrow

no taller
than yr knees

as clouds
at altitude


no beginning

at peace

with the small

of the ordinary



feeling switched at birth.

As a babe
we would take yr milk

from your hand
pumped out of a breast

knowing you or not
& maybe never know

anything was wrong,
immune, we’re growing on

elite and hard to mend
crawling on the floor & joined

in tv sing-along
this, is clearer, each epiphany—

there’s a word
as the bubble burst


the sudden soft
coming to yourself.


If yr proof
is not canopied
of others
of  ‘an’other

than yourself
then by your knowing
look make it out
available compassionate

and true. fear, & love,
have an equal sort
of access

to the signs. the facts
are disputed

everywhere, truth is
neutral. grit

becomes gemstone candle

are not the flame;
nor the keepers

of the Flint the mechanics
of combustion formula.

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.



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.

from 6ome 6ixes In Hi6tory


I Think, Maybe.
Or it’s an App.

I thought, between stars,
the gaps
of my knowing, we could

argue that
there is more black
than light

or to know 
requires a flow
from, by,

the Knower, between two
of which she is neither:

not ‘off’, nor ‘on’
but the faculty of ‘Venture’
you may cross

out Yahweh, and write
instead: Minerva,
the app will run; on Krishna

or Jesus,
you won’t lose believers;
we’re all here:

the lived, those to live, and the living
our heads hanging
over the hammock

looking up at the cat
turning her tail
this way and that

the illusion of Now
in the stars and systems
of stars above her

nightfur, bone
and the those
hybrid eyes

widened to a circle
all present, all time
in the State between

the stare
the stared at

here in these words
you looking, the
milli, is it

or nano, less
even, of a second

for them
your meaning.