ode to winter

I stop the gaps between the silences and the murmurs of another room – a baritone

talks to himself or a sleeping partner stirred between the sheets. Outside, the crystal street tree-

lined birds discuss the seasons So long to spring.


Since I started to think this, a man with nothing else to do is out with his chainsaw and the whole                                                                                                                                               fucking thing’s gone.


Let me just say this:

Fuck suburbia. Fuck America’s Cup. And fuck odes to winter.

prayer to anti-self

and me fallen, which is the worst thing that could happen

to a man like you but better; with the weight of everything

on my shoulders.


I’m like you, as a man resembles another,

fly, a flower…etc – from behind: I have


eyes, your personality…etc

fixed for good, nailed: I get

dark joy at our suffering, which isn’t

your fault or mine,


bitch. Degenerate. You could try walk

my heels, you know,


study the multitudinous forms that flourish

in the bower, the fish bowl you’d disown

if you could.


See what happens when I tune in/

turn on for so long, stuffed

in my sodden hole.


I shut my eyes to my situation;

all the better to enjoy you,

the filth of yr creation.


I get a measure here of solitude when the street turns in

& the night is soft & distant.


I hear the blue light of a siren dying, & in the silence,

the corrugated iron clawed by the cold fingers of the plum tree.


This is my table in the corner, photographs, postcards

bought on holiday; the body of Christ


post crucifixion; de-nailed, tender – it’s queer

to think of him that way – & other memorabilia:


a Madonna, for instance, presented after a funeral.

I remember because i’m swayed now & then,


believe for no reason. Even Immoral things.

I react i think to rational politics, the nightmare


of production-production:  i’m for the risen Christ,

the soft night; the flashing blue light in the distance.

lines by the water

her stars align.


each line




has something like

blood    stone

torn       limb

skin        prick


a flesh wound that actually



kick-starts her

heart     some part

of herself            half





so she was

here      her syllables

clues missed


by the meticulous

casuals                  in blue


on the sand-flecked

floor for instance              her

back room

at the end of a long

hall         for instance        the


sun-tipped straw              o the wide

round of days days          long

sky         the riverbed


grey       a face

in water               her dress


by stones            that had lain


among the bric-a-brac

of the bank         sand

& flowers


she lay in the hollow

pool of shallows where

spectres bowed


disfigured            eyes wide

saw the line that

divides this world

from another



I need to be high like

this         at her feet. beneath

her skirt               I fell

on purpose         tried

all night to see

nothing but her white


stars head high &

the blue light of an ambulance



she was here one summer

& when she left I shook at the knees.


In dreams her hair’s

real short             her eyes


glazed                   wide

like strangers


in the night

cars on the highways


of your sleep

& when you wake

miles away


cows graze



of spring

worlds away

but you anyway are.

really there



in the curves

of her line

breaks  snake

hip          syllables

coil         slumber



crawl. shed skin.

score bark. round

my neck down

the boughs & twigs

of my finger



no big deal

but                         still



try me

she says               ok


I will



it’s winter.


tuesday. we had lunch

by the lakes.

the sun shone.

the sky was blue

& the water…


birds flew

both ways because it’s all so




we met

in the cherry red

mirror between

2 brush strokes


art school

I still play with blocks, roll

cars along the boards of the living room,

a horse on all fours I sing,

swing, slide, see-

saw at the park with my

friend; colour in within

lines, outside them to be,

expansive of course.


But you’re not thinking:

Does he really do this shit

or is it a metaphor for fucking

                                                art? are you.

poem by the river

The poem’s there, pulled by the flow, tossed by the boat;

in sunlight, spun in the circles of water;


here, on the bank, the bare branches of winter,

bowed to the water. It motors: like film, the repose

of passengers in profile, still, but this 1 girl

turned her head as an afterthought, saw, she thinks,

a glimpse of man stood tall. So. He thinks her lips

formed vowels, an O, for the real flesh of man, tore


off, with her teeth, something… Think: what it is

to be her, there, to see me falling away caught

in the trees like it’s really me that’s moving.


This will have to do – the circular wind

rolling the sky; the solitude I feel, hung still

like a gull reeled, art that blows even before

it stills. Here my thoughts are degenerate,

post-modernist, a white page of black lines,

the rudimentary outlines

of bare trees.


I envision the scene – now, but tonight also

& all my days, nailed like stars that light the walls

of a room I slept in 10 or 12 years ago.


Sunday Morning

Put the hammer down, sir,
and step away from the skill saw.

This is a good neighbourhood
on a Sunday. We like to sleep,

wake slow to the hollow notes
of dawn, the tripping toes light
against the corrugated roofs
of lean-tos; a fresh wind
kicking the can along the tarmac;
a distant rattle of saucers,
tea cups, coffee spoons; a cough
from another room.

All this is good.
Put the fucking hammer down, sir.

fragments of

Karen’s dark eyes             half-light

…flicker                5 minutes

was gone


I’m dying               to be

at dawn our milk skins        Tender is

Downwind                I



all that day                 held close

the memory of her skin

she said.


Out!                    Breathe

in                      I fled

my room because


The street                   and the moon

My steps beat                between


One                     two


four                    I, delay at the

foot of her stairs                six & seven…


her stairs                   my hand and


9 Ten                        her door and

…tore her                    pages




In the dark I’m remote from what you call Personality. Nothing but nerve and guts

like flowers that shoot, up when you enter the room and I’m yours if you want.


For an hour, a minute. All night I can do nothing; text the dead, fix the gap of door/ and

jamb. In the mind: I trace


the index finger: air, contours of furniture, cracks,

slant of white light across the wall.


On your back at 2 o’clock you twist the ring around your finger.

I know you’re there. Don’t you feel it’s better like this.

Deny Hope

The more absorbed by it
The further away we become
Inside we are tearing a deaf scream
Inside we realize we are the ones that are confused
But we fail to consciously acknowledge it
You can see it I can tell
I will belong to you
The cut of your dress
To look you in the shoe
Shame in my eyes
Could never meet your own
Then the rest would really know what it’s like
The screaming grows within us
Silence in a pool of dreams
Led by a charmers glance
Burn your doubts and tumble away dreams
Gift it back with song
It belongs to us
Give me the words
You can see
The rest of them don’t
I know you believe
No matter what she sees
Tell my lover to come back to me