I get a long-distance call from a girl who says she knows me.


Years on, I’m in a room that,

in the abstract, is familiar

with its combination of walls

& furniture.


It’s late summer & the sun’s low

yellowing the moth-worn



The voice I know somewhere & a face starts to form,

& part of a name.



The stars are up & my

lens slips from Saturn’s



fumbles about her

kitchen window. I take


notes, co-ordinates

as her shadow practices

a monologue or rattles dishes.


I’m curious but

disconnected –            I

look     but





there’s no blood & the faint scar’s from years


I’m not

home anymore not high not

stoned but                   away I’m



fit to hold your

stare say nothing         This


is the best I have been

long term

the least disturbed

In dreams my


cut’s     not so

deep as to leave anything

more than

worn skin

Purse Kept Gems

To search outwards defines strength,

To wander in the fields of black roses and purple orchids,

Dance around and around under the late summer sun,

Tumblers of pink lemonade, gin and chock full of ice cubes,

Straws and a slice of lime to accommodate,

Gather yourself and meet us there,

We can watch the sun cast it’s light across the evening setting sky.

This art does hurt.

The fusion of good words,

Entwine the threads of conversations,

Little purse kept gems,

Cropping up matters of hope,

Decadent the poison is to be removed,

A vortex of whims dragged below the lavender flower beds,

The chopped heads of flowers will fall to the earth,

Dusty and devout throughout the late afternoon,

Struggling for breath in between,

Drowned in a river of mothers weep and pink lemonade.

when you talk, i listen

I shook like a flower

in your hand.


i was


. in spirit                                  i was


. what

i                                               was

. but a shake of the head,


a nod.                                      not really


everybody says I’m like           your

playground companion.


When you rise I fall,

like flies on death.

dissolutions in the morning 3

the skin on my finger tip is,

rubs against your in-



dry & your smile is

thin. Had a feeling you’d


be gone. Saw it clear, some-

where when I shut my

eyes in


daylight, saw

red & when

I passed on

almost, black


. There’s a knock

& I can’t get to the door before



I’m at the funeral

& I can’t hear a word

of it & there’s nothing

like death or your mother


to kill the buzz, the

crack, your cock between her wide

thighs snapped tight, against

the grain & you fill her good

like that grave/digger

shoving the dirt back in. I’m/

a machine|Not-thinking \ just­­­­/ ff____


____fucking because. What else

is there. I’m sure yr/ man doesn’t mind,

because I’m/ family &/ (shh) – my/ mama just died ___________


there’s no time

it’s said time will end one day or night as if it now exists which i don’t think it does                                                                                               because

it has no substance, isn’t subject to change therefore, so. tho it’s true i’ve no formal learning                                                                              . but a hunch my instinct is good.


when i fell in love i didn’t know what to do & couldn’t think because everything was just you                                                                               know

& i didn’t know where i was or when, & some days i was like No. & other days was just, omg

, Joy & half understood what it is to walk

on the moon. the world is miracle

but you shakin yr heads like it’s, impossible.

balloon, something you invent; figment. idea i think –

one day you’re gone & never was & violins don’t begin to tell it.

i hope these butchered words do.

common ground

do you like the way the fronds come alive

when the light falls and the wind stirs?

how they wave –


worm tails, white

your eye stilled

in the darkness of my room.


huh, it rained all day and the sun shines

5 minutes before sun-down, but.


the first stars,




I drink wine. Think,

This is my blood.


It’s good. Put

down the glass close

shop satisfied I’m



More god

than man. I was at


the laundromat lost

in the hum of

tumbling colours.

I was


nothing. Drove home

more god than man.

her loneliness

it’s lonely, i’ll tell it,

it’s lonely there & you’re too sore

to think.



i’ll describe the crooked lamp

shade later, the tears

of paper, cracks, chipped

dinner plates, years of

slog for,


& that on good days

you figure it doesn’t

much matter


in the long run;

the black stain

where a picture

hung, its gilded

frame long

gone now bones




night animals

Me & the cat saw a possum scamper up the plum tree

by our letter box. We raised our gaze in the quarter light

& spied it on a high branch, a silhouette against the smoked

dusk sky.


& last night, as we shared a smoke, the cat & I,

on the veranda, we heard a cry that turned our ears,

& a moment later saw an owl spread against the sky.