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    A leaf fell from the trees

    Lonely a road cold
    Leave the critics to their retorts
    This is no scripture
    No ancient Latin definition
    It’s a story of how they met
    For the rest of you this is where it begins
    She sits with an apple
    Entices the serpent
    The boy will follow
    Biting into her neck
    She eats the freshly picked fruit
    It’s crisp, juicy and grown with care.

    It’s a firework that burns with serpentine motion
    ‎We will ignite the sky with reports
    ‎Dazzle it’s story upon the trailing sky
    Confelli will drop floating to the ground beneath us
    ‎Only if……

    Shoal Harbour

    Bright city light meets waking dawn

    Incandescent shoal shimmers

    Strangley symbiotic

    Harbour bridge traffic an aural backdrop

    To birdcall and lapping water

    Strangley soothing

    The puddles are delicious

    Shells cut my feet

    It’s all relative, I am content

    on poetic composition

    my word isn’t blood or milk

    spilt or symbolical of it.


    i’m cut by what’s

    remembered, what is not

    & the gap, a flat windy lot

    that rings like wooden chimes.


    for days, as mice play in the cracks

    between my toes & fingers,

    i lie in the hollows or high

    billowing like wheat the colour of hair.


    there’s nothing to it – the massive meditations

    of sky & mountain

    where i hear myself, think.

    The Bookseller

    The book seller

    does not look up

    He is lost

    in the art of the non-sale

    His book is held out:

    it a prop and he the actor.

    Here he rules, with Frame and Sullivan;

    Michener and Collins

    The air is stale,

    fusty with his leavings

    He manages a feigned smile:

    ‘’Looking, are we?’’

    There is no escape:

    not the poetry or cooking;

    not Home Mechanics

    A bell shakes above the door

    Sea air enters, a buyer leaves

    otago sky

    otago sky

    all the leavings of stone
    and sky from creation
    that fateful day
    are dumped
    i saw skies
    in one
    this early morning
    stormings of cloud
    long shores of it
    burstings of gutted
    pink torn out
    of the pages
    of genesis
    poplar towers
    poplar shoals
    rocking in that
    wind its flog
    in shoulder
    with the hard
    eye of sun
    on those
    dry plains
    felt out of
    place to be
    so near the
    old birthings
    of land
    sky that
    told histories
    of itself to
    the deaf
    my view
    to the hilt
    of sight.


    january 2012

    Rats in the Attic.

    The atrocity of sleep
    its rasped, wooden cogs
    turn greased and gruesome
    atop me.
    Leaving me slick,
    sick in its absence.

    A wonted tryst
    with a vanished shadow
    pending repetition –
    a witch’s vigil
    is at my windowsills.

    Want is the moon,
    the forecast – 23 floors down.
    My faculties are static,
    while rats scratch out torrid
    letters – romantic,
    in the attic.

    Ali Baba (from the sky)

    We are still

    under the sky,

    In the guest room;

    Beast and cryptic.


    Everything crawls.

    A car flings us.

    I see one peeling

    The middle east.


    Down there, it’s still

    Exotic; an open sore,

    With a mule-cart

    Full of gold.


    Still Loving

    The quiet eye


    our ankles,

    soft against

    each other;


    idles in

    the under-

    ground tavern

    I sweep

    in my mind,

    deep into corners

    and back


    the wall.


    I see


    and heavy

    jaws of the dark;

    a few words

    sifted, careless.

    I’ve seen them.


    I’ve seen you,

    fly into a

    man’s eye

    and out again;

    nearing the rope

    I keep

    in the cupboard.


    Distant now;

    a thousand

    coloured balls


    across the



    Out of the room

    I see you – white;

    splash a bee

    on the brick-work,

    kick on your back

    and see me

    at the window.


    14 February, 2018

    The Flexi-verse


    In the flexi-verse l am a scientist. A lawyer. A policewoman. A murderer. A artist. A wastrel. A malingerer. A politician. A dancer. A healer. A brothel keeper. A serial killer.
    Which one am l now?
    A Netflix binge Her.

    When l dream we touch. Blend a bit. Swirl. Live for a bit in each other’s worlds and then as if giant magnets polarized us. We disperse back to our realms.

    That will do for now. Only in sleep can these things be discussed.

    Last night l was thewastrel. It was good. I was happy down sizing my big soft bed for a little thin mattress to go on my tiny self. I was dirty but felt clean. Picking up cans instead of healing auras.

    Sea Here

    The sea slurps

    beneath the wooden slats,

    near the bobbing boats,

    little masts and care-worn flags.

    Crates of fish come up –

    hefted on swollen muscle;

    grey and white flesh

    slick with the sea, mouths

    open too late;

    jagged on lines.

    The gulls have come –

    red sea legs and tiny eyes

    watching – always

    for a slip, a morsel.

    The sea behind the bay

    rattles the stones,

    flips the tiny shells,

    they wink at a watery sun

    Yes No