birthday cake

who will sing for us

hear us

in love

with ourselves



no-one cares

if we live

if we die that’s



friends we never had

speak for us

say such


& such

which is worse

than nothing

but I didn’t


want to talk about that

tonight I

want us

to think about




is it good



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I’m here for the burst of rains that score trails across

the silences, ‘til my bowels give out or some more

spiritual need intercedes, flowering my insides: heels

on the street, the memory of her skin; any minute


I expect a vision pressed against the glass, looking in.

I’m in the mood to conjure up, everything; cracks

against the sky, lightning strikes; strive to understand,

like the first man to rise from the protozoan slime.


All things can tempt me from my bliss – colours, for instance;

the spectred trees, hands to the sky, on the other side

of the rainbow; temporal worlds, apparitions like stone

peripherals, half real; love, politics…Anything



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There’s some time when there’s birds,

insects. Weather. Then, flies.

Nothing more. This

is the end. Germs & such,



Although just now a car went past,

I hear nothing but the micropods

cruising the silence, cracks in the

pavement, blades of. Past this,

I can’t go.

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She’s a user but sees

thru the cracked vision

of her high the animal

beneath her.


She rides

all night. Sleeps behind

the drawn curtains of day.

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You Are Not My Entire Audience

That music is turning my brain to mincemeat,
That Japanese chick screaming those lyrics,
“Bee bop around you”
Too much longer I can’t handle,
Vomit from the eyeballs at her sound,
It was going cool until she took the stage,
She’s lost the concept,
She was there once but not tonight,
She’s lost the moon whilst counting the stars,

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The Last Bridge Home -draft

She thought she had better race home beat the incoming storm
The lightening struck her a bolt from nowhere
Knocked her from her bicycle
Jolted as a bucking horse does its wrangler
She bounced into a car coming in the oncoming traffic
Slammed in to a brick wall leading on to the bridge she had to cross home
The bicycle twisted spokes impaled her spine
She lay paralysed by sciatica in the gales of wind and oncoming rain
Her feet felt cold
Broken spokes impaled into her spine paralysing her everytime she tried to move
Even to lift her head piercing agony
The mangled bicycle lay a strewn
She lay starring blankly at the people over top consoling her
Deaf to their words
Her head bleeding profusely
She was never afraid of his darkness
She saw the demons dance round his eyes
Momentarily she believed he was still alive
Slaps to her face she made out an ambulance was called for
She lay on the road beside a stream beneath the overhanging willow trees
Gustily bracken trees
The cold crept from her feet into her torso now
All she could do was lie and wait
Breathing and exhaling gulps of blood and crucifying pain
Slipping away
She now understood her fate
She knew it was moments left to live…..

11th Feb 2016

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The Bunkern

Sometimes you have to lead the way
Way back they went
West Auckland friends best off they lived
But the “funky fruit fly” and the musican go back further
250 years tunneled underneath deep deep deep
He’s trapped inside a bunker
Driving fruitless projects labeled a lost cause
Stuck in an underground cell
He is an independent cell
When you are trained as a terrorist
You become one
He missed the panther
Painting sessions the type of long lost souls
Am empty poet who slipped away
Her conversation now aloof
She bounced the jukebox
It had set free to his mind
Where it goes down a rabbit hole staircase even further
deep deep deep
She would be Queen if she had wanted
He knows it wont
He is a loner but he laments so what?
Tell him you know loyalty and respect
Tell him you hold the keys to these passages
He”ll pick those who earn it and the ones who think they have it
The people like him dead the those dying.


3rd March 2017


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hail king malcolm

Who cares when I’m dead 50 years?

I leave you nothing but

benevolence. Stable government.


I’m born again – this man

who holds the pen is me

& doesn’t even speak

my lingo.




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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.

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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.

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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.

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The old lisp

I hear, as if

on a grey day.


If all I have is through,

the pool moves.


Un-tuck me


at the scribble

of feathered wrist;


and dribble

at God’s window-pane.


Gust is the scrawl

I see as wonder;


crippled at the hillside.


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