Dependable Ladies

Gracefully they move

up a path of flowers,

past the towering oak,

the laughing, bobbing

faces of fritillarias.

To each a stick, tapping

the fine shingle, brass

point raising dust for

sensible brown shoes.

Ladies of service;

carers and helpers:

nothing’s a bother,

ladies a plate. Please.

Dainty sandwiches,

cut on the quarter,

asparagus rolls, too.

Count of them, today

and all tomorrows;

count of them

when things are tough;

count of them always.

A caring sun-spot hand.

On yours. Lovingly firm.

They know what to do.

As we do not know



In the next room

tapping the stone

wall, messaging


you; I too am in



and long for you;



hours, days;  the decades

lose distinction.

Let us meet in some

corner of the Gardens;

the graveyard next door,

at 1: it’s better


in the morning; never

a soul ever dare

tread that dead

ground. A voyeur,

maybe with an ear

to the ground.



Buried here

are the heretics, Yes! and if

you bend…your ear

over the tombstone,

here…you hear the dead sigh

like the wind in the wood:

the mournful Suicides;


but turn now…your hands

upon my shoulders, O. Look,

the lovelorn sodomites

fff, those dogs hot upon

the burning sands; and

the older men wend

more gracefully.



dig the earth

with your fingernails.


17 August 2015.

note – part 3 makes references to the Inferno.


on hearing his seventh
to Ludwig Von Beethoven

deaf to all but
the twining melody
of your thought
how the gods stride
through your symphonies
out of and into
the silence
of the

16 june, 2014

on hearing a Bach fugue for organ

is pumping
out the air
in immaculate
dark voices
from metal
steps of
sorrowing almost
sheer joy
in climbing up
to god
each step
you might
think getting
shorter of
in the
yet as
ever it’s

april 2, 2013
tamaki drive


where you come
to the top of the
rise the organ
struck its
heaviest chord
ringing us back
to a gilded age
of churches raised
into the clear
refracted light
of fugue a Bach
a Cesar Franck
peddling on it
pounding at it
on pipes tall
as the crucifixion
just at the top
of the rise the
chord fell and the
sea opened out in
sunken miles of
blue and silvered
drifts of
utter calm
that is how it
fell together
the chord the
view of the
islands the
ribs of norkfolk
pine on soft
lapping hills
you can pick
apart even this far
away just on the
strength of
that music
that chord
on a cheap
car stereo.

bleakhouse rd, nelson st, howick
31 march 2014


But who can know who or what

is real? I came to, breathing still,

delicate air; the Dove at the Fountain,

after which this place is named, is still

there; and you too will come to lay

here – in the flesh (if it be your will),

I mean. It’s the sort of place birds love,

and the flowers are as happy as the birds.


14 August 2015

The Dawn

First there is blackness
pricked with light, then
tree lines come into view:
dawn is at the gate.
It lets out its light
to startle a fence
marching up a hill,
a hunched house,
a lone cat, low, white
socks padding the dust,
the great gum’s arms
reaching ever up,
leaves silver ticers.
This is how it begins,
its unfolding life,
sun lifting the dew,
the big-bellied pigeon
drawing pictures in
the lightening sky


She ranged,

she was hastily creative,

she hatched tiny,
expired empires
arranged on whims,

sweet nonsense

and the contraction of ideas;

she said they always split
– rent –
down the stem,

where each divide
was high
or torn a-shred.

A venous mistress,

she approached
the human hustle
not for reproduction,

but the blooded marrow
of connection –

she would cut off the head,
in search of a friend
from the hellion haunt
of hydra-headed

she climbed the walls –

her hair
shone a mirror for her flaws;

an old reflection
built each new house,

she freaked her borders,

in bondage
she plucked from the perimeters,

and then she fled

to another
immaculate imager
of arch-design.


grave evening

      grave evening

i read
the names
of everyone
i’d ever known
on the headstones
wondered how
it came to
pass that i
was left here
in evening
lay down
beside them
like a flower
broken in
to ash
until the
wind dusted
me away.

evening, 22 june 2013
st andrews church, ridge rd, howick

Just Degrees

Everybody is fucked up!

Just six degrees of separation


Vegan diet

Daily meditation-



Giving in

to temptation-

Society is fucked up!

Just two degrees of contemplation

Black or white

No shades of grey

Nothing to come and go on-

No rainbow children

No cloud boys

No faerie girls-

Nobody is really fucked up!

Just a million degrees of communication

Open hearts

Open minds

Kind recognising kind-

Holding hands

Sharing words

Open to reciprocation-

Black and Blue

Black and blue

Black and blue

Is my heart

Like the bruises

you left behind-

Scarlet red

Scarlet red

Is my head

Like the blood

You took from me

In kind-

Do you ever

think of me?

And wonder

Why I left you?

As you burn there

In the hell

you have created

For yourself

I hold my head high

I feel no shame

I no longer

take the blame

For the many hues

of black and blue

That ultimately

became you-



they were out
on the front lawn
the father, the daughter
and the son-in-law
the father was showing
where the birdbath
would go when
it came
considerations of
this and that
it was hot and
dry out on that
patch of lawn
and the daughter
the son-in-law were
putting in an effort
to keep up with
his talk but seemed
to not know just
how much effort
it deserved.
i recalled having
such a conversation
with my mother once
about the birdbath
simply putting a
big basin on the
lawn doesn’t look
wonderful and wouldn’t
work in any case
because of the cats
she’d surveyed the
backyard in her
own fashion
yet couldn’t hit
on the right spot
the colour, pebbled
or smooth were
also on the table
and it was hot
work out on the
pivot of her empire
that back yard
and garden
with the clothesline
chugging the breeze
this way and that.

it took all my
vagrant years to
learn just what
things we can
speak of when it
comes down to
the waterline
where the little
becomes much
and the heavy
lifts to float

january 2,5,6, 2015
union st, cockle bay, howick

The Resurrection

Possum under headlights!!!

Wide eyed and bushy tailed –

Passion exposed

Spontaneous tis woe!!!

Wanton kisses in the doorway-

Ultimately led to my demise-

Pants around ankles

Shoes still on-

Butt cheeks alive

on hidden camera

Moist lips

And clenched thighs-

Now headless chicken-

Cluck cluck cluck…

Backwards and forwards

Side to side-

Thoughts are racing-

My mind is pacing-

Space invaders

What the fuck???

Pointing witchy fingers at me wildly

But how was I supposed to know?

Big sister was watching-

My cabaret show-

From her hidden camera zone

Possum under headlights!!!

Dazed now and confused-

Not quite roadkill-

But ready to arise-

No bitches will fuck me-

No witches will bite

Full moon on the horizon-

This bitch will re-arise!!!