You exist in the poor length

of my second toe, our lip and Irish eye

that pinks upon the island air.


I’m bored cleaning corpse from

empirical floor.  I pack jaws

that don’t speak, at doors to centuries.


Sing – give us wars that ring

in your elbow, sting of injury,

and porous nuance.


I heard a man tore you once

and told your whanau in desperation.

They stood, and taught him to carve.


It matters, in the new-bled day

that pours out of sun or piddles in the rain,

I learned a wing healed upon the plane.




Note- plane as in planing wood.

from Antithetical: Poet as Worm


It is good, yes?, to be reliable, and
bold, like the engine, feed coal,
soil, Mr. Diesel’s modified; or a coil
humming particles, muons excitation
in the gravity of time
pulling everyone wired so, a round
sub-molecular redundancies: nought;
the armed guardsmen, the drivers;
class; system; Courts, of Papacies,
and vested interests; sound ideology
or not; so long, ago, the train,
a tunnel, a chapter in the ocean,
the obscured notion of some ‘coming’
making it out the other side
of Primitive, into knowing: New Fuel,
Progress of interstellar travel: my guess
copy and paste—the ‘best minds
of the gene-rations, starving, hysterical,
bare-alls funded by intelligence agencies,
the Beat compromised, the Rhythm
sure jerked around a lot, we like to think
our train is not alike, but the Sun alone
a long time by itself is swirled powerless
along in the submission of all things,
nebulae, horizons, swung about a hub
defies location is the power of the old
non centralisation, this is the hour
of a new transmission, minutes lasting years…




from: Love The Word Feeling Actual

. . . . . . . . .
History: is guessing
what was left out
who knew the secrets
and who had the clout.

History: is running
back to where you came
why prophets and profits
sound alike.

History: is written
words sealed to their shape
but you know by looking
where the words are not

there’s a whole lot
of Nothing keeps 
History in place.

. . . . . . . . .

History: is weaning breasts
in loose singlets; the adult nipples
of the brunette

as she undoes the buttons
on the blond,
fingering her friends

pyjama strings, elbows
to palm, they arch
against the wall
papered with the drooping
legs of egrets.

. . . . . . . . .

Your name— is a protected seed.
This poem: is a fertile thought
recognised in Time— it is not
the aloneness of the mountain :

Einstein’s failure to understand
the importance of Lensing,
may, once again, indicate
a hidden hand among the times

A man can be spelt away;
women spelt the same.
Bodies in flame evaporate
being, waves in fluid Time

from a human birth, a mother
from her dark into the light
the conundrum of ‘the other’
consciousness which cannot
know itself without another
of something which it’s not

. . . . . . . . .