beard in-fancy #2


the shock
of the
is my new auto
the poetic interest
is anthropological.
the personal need
is a difficult night
to overcome.

we are the ripples
on the surface
of Sleep, giving
very little
of why the water rose

40 some seasons
of rent paid
without a price increase
at a third of what Realtors
charge, and now,
in a new
dwelling, I pay the
Market prices,
upped with the earthquake,
and the crisis
in housing.


everything works
for something else:
the person whose
manifest covers several
thousand employee
works for Customer: and Trees,
designed solely
for the sound they make,
cast cool shadows.
we are feel-capsules
in search of compadres
to express the infinite

this poem
is about the difficulty
of finding where it is
we emanate from,
and the task
of these words
is like air
like rungs
I trust
hold my wait,
paused between this
age, and habitat
as I climb from
a night
of sleep closed
like a fist within
my mind, white knuckled
in its grip
around a living star.
a source restricted
shine. the move,
performed alone,
with a trailer and a van,
went so damn smooth
it had to be right.


the dust
restrained had turned
to dirt behind the oldest
abstract paintings, while
the wall, its power
socket I hadn’t seen
for eight years, revealed
the dinosaur stickers
beside where our
pillowed heads
in the comfort
of kindness
kept lawful
by shared parameters
and Mingus first asked about gOd,
all wonder and freedom,
sat between my legs
in bedtime reading
before the closed-eye
mystery of Sleep.


it is I now
who wonder
who I am, in the memories
made in our children,
their phrases and progressions
carried in their finger paintings
& craftwork lionising us
on Father’s day, all moved, the
important toys
found as I evacuated
the old studio, peeling back
the layers of paintings
like archaeologists
revealing solar activity
the deeper the drill digs,
I’m finding work
I’d forgotten I’d painted, works
I don’t remember
painting—the slashed articulate
cravings leading into Rehab,
a fifth of what
tenth of
none of it required,
all trivial, but for every
mark on the life growth
chart, half in child’s writing,
as we dated his ascension
directly on the wall
panel, this, with the landlord’s
blessing, was removed;
the single prize possession
a potent memory board
moved to a new dwelling, shifting
more than I tell.


Wordsworth’s scholar-gypsy,
Basho, leaving snow-fall indentations
in the crystal-white beginnings
of another Winter; after all
the purple-orange leafage
twirlings, the dust
left to settle
on the curtains
of the vacated premises
I was going to hitch
to Auckland, busk the ferry
ticket, returning
all Saving to a locked, Interest-bearing
account—and live off the hat. this
was the plan, thought fully
through, originally, when
the bulldozers were ready
I was to going to reduce
and smooth back
into the van: instead —2
hundred & 80%
more rent.

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northern wanders early autumn


morning after pill

flowing clumpy through my fingers
dawn-cold sand, a mauve colour
at the grey beach, by the play equipment
where I’d slept, deeply & sedately,
underneath the electron microscope.
crystalline, multi-coloured sand,
up close, inspected individually,
in the light from stars named
though wholly wrong, is as varied
as I am—as you are: raindrops,
leaves, people, dust from cosmic legacy—
explosive growth when roots secure a sewer
pipe of running water, and feed
upon our faeces, like flowers
and boutiquey truffles. normally
I’d claim the same omissions,
whilom societal dispositions,
as words will close discussions,
a ‘star’ is doubtless countless
many things more than language
-polished lenses can ever clarify,
these floating stellar focusing devices,
so many more things: bankers, priests,
plumbers and magicians…but now I think,
as the mountain ranges pink with snow,
all words are pointers, misdirects,
I look away, towards a door slammed.
the sun, twenty minutes from its entry;
and, waiting, as her monologue closes,
graveyard radio host, the Moon, about to exit,
stage west, will not briefly book-end, with Sol,
My dawn, and I will stand between
two states, two distances, a man
amongst seagulls alerted by the croissants
carefully heated on an orange-violet flame
from a small gas cooker. magnificent silence,
all circles observantly. suburban windows.
tight, clear, lamp-lit; erogeny ready,
I can feel it pulsing, I will own this
and command the caffeinated state
for a lean poetic pornography. early or late,
is she going home, or into the big toilet
to cry? I decide she is peeing
on a stick to determine a decision
on her mate, and I close the bag, too
weighty at first, but now half the size
it was, the didge airlifted home, books
abandoned unread, Mac, put to sleep
in a box with breathing holes,
& sent behind the instrument
—the lightness in my step!

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That girl, From The Party After The play, Watson’s Friend

Caution: contains erotic content

someone I didn’t know slept
on next to me,
I didn’t wake her, when I rose,
sickened, to medicate
from the cool frigates
moored in the harbours of the mind
and any apprehension
left me as I lit the first enrolment form
and moved the blanket covering
a long spine, cellulite, a few pimples
to who I had to slowly piece together
as I sat beside the heavy old compewta
and watched her
and smelt her and couldn’t
remember what
we’d been doing.

I smelt myself. I bubbled
a cone and drained the bladder
for a pint of the last merlot,
I lifted the insects out and felt Forever
on the exhalation
as a place I wouldn’t want to leave,
smoky partial rays of summer, light
fragrance of the night, beeswax
blobs of a forgotten candle. I opened the book
cover of her buttocks, her two pages.
I read low, obsessed for her
story…hmmm she said, dhaa.
and I was blind, like a radar
but I didn’t have the narrative
and soon she asked, throwing back
the lighter, if I’d like to fight her,
beat the panels dented in the landing,
and the hot city magnified the heat,
and light lit the curtains like the perspex
box at the studio by the telephone
/fax I used to view the Hasselblad
transparencies on. I was in my Dream,
no mistake, I wasn’t just looking
at the negatives. go one further
she said, grab my throat, don’t leave a
mark though, and cracks began
appearing in her breathing, and I took
it to her roughly, to the hanger, I said,
to the reaches of our large human minds.
I’m paraphrasing, can you tell?, amalgamating
mornings, it was both of us filming
by creating, these were the fantasies assembled
in our childhood, every party, every bender,
every carbon-copy send-off,
every contact sheet from the Nikon
I was getting older— into place, but further
from the resolute original. I pinned her
arms to the floor, forcing my origin all
between her hips, her knees, expertly
parted I thought, on top of the first thought,
running the stoned tip of my hard looks
around her lips, waiting for a numbness
to truly penetrate, before the right to celebrate
her ended, nearly every morning
was cork to the bottle of the previous
day, ideas were being quickly reimagined
in the do-nothing smoke, fungal
hallucinations, abysmal diet, socks,
a hefner robe, a guccione scrambling
in the failure to repack
for online content. I photographed the
yellow green light of tennis balls, in the
curtains, then left them
open for some neighbours in the flats above
are things done just done to try it. and my balls
she said I
love it they were stroking her
low hole hanging in the Tuesday

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from Nowhere/ Always/ Everywhere. #2

        They drove off, waving
from the backseat,
on the wrong side
of the road
at first because
the Moving Truck
was still reversing in.

the Bulb invents its filament,
Lightning stalks the lonely,
and the over-celebrated.
Death: a living body…
Form: a Life imagined;
exercised athletic substance
excursions running mountains
kayaking mountain rivers
cycling into effigies
of how we want enlightenment
through urban redevelopment
where I am neither slow
nor medium, and certainly not
the fastest, even with the advantage
of the water grabbing gloves on.

once, it was only, ever, & always
the performance
at the parties…the artistry
of light, and the bass
we smuggled in
the arteries,
beat, move, & pick-up,
the navaho cortex,
mushroom cloud
and cactus way,
cornering those
who took
their thinking on
from their parents, teachers,
government, while not the most
were the more reliable
and they would not be left
texting on a beer crate
in an empty lounge
as the moving truck
turned over in the driveway
as the last red worded
boxes were carried out.


I’ve plugged the ears with age
and snapped the rubber cap on,
sprayed the anti-fog, filled the gaps
with home-made, I’ve rode the waves
of causeless bliss, lifting weights
and waiting lift. I’ve left her
singing gently from an inner happiness
to pull her tights back on, how she puts
her best toe forward, I wouldn’t drink again
…unless I had to, there, for courage, full
comfort in the density of real things,

and their not-ness, too;
the outside shape the white horse
makes, stood still, is enough,
in the green grass, snow
tinged bluely on the mountains
behind the cemetery, where strollers
and their babies
feed her yellow flowers;
I latch on to a bouquet, the smell
in a shipyard, the steel and
the hard work,
the feel of a hung bell
looked at.




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from Common-On-Est.

The retrial started after
I’d taken a sleeping pill
when my son decided he wanted in
the same bed
after a frightening movie
of time travelling extraterrestrials
physically present on earth,
not frightening, in the horror movie
way, but deep, intellectually
complex, and because I had to work
early I took the tablet, and then
the mother said, as I was climbing
between them, ‘Why did you bother
if you’re not going to be alive
in your sleep?, no cuddles for me!’
So using that for my excuse because
I had a new artwork I’d finished
in the afternoon which I wanted to view
under electric light, I drove home,
not far that I would fall asleep
on the way, and when I got home
I stood looking and wondering how
a man with no art training
or even any early inclination
could produce and sell so many
painted surface artworks?,
and because the pill had started
working and it was like when I used
to drink and drug I thought I would stay
awake for as long as I could,
and I took down from the shelf a writer
I used to read when I wrote drinking
and read poetry drunk. I know Regret
is a lame horse, and I don’t know if
it was because the movie we watched
spoke about Language in relation to Time
and Thought as the conditioning agents
for being free or being caught— but even
though I’d removed the saddle
and stirrups and the reins
and had lead Regret, limping
to a small piece of lawn behind the shed
by the tyre swing, where the wood to
be made into kindling was stored
which were the kisses I didn’t take,
and the days I didn’t show up, the mistakes
Bravado allows, and expects; with the gun
in my hands, the knowledge
of Time, Emotion, the symbolism
of Memory, I still was unable
to pull the trigger…



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Happy You Near

I used to think I knew enough, ‘Lastly’
had a meaning I could feel. Success :
I have to find it here myself, the kind
seen only from a distance—

how we smashed out golden from the shell,
a snake from the egg of youth, between
home and school, slipped out
of the 1st skin of childhood
to emerge fruited and full

of success, if not quite anywhere, yet
enough to go camping and recognise rule,
& not really golden either, strange
mucus and blood, the puckering shove,
and pouting, the baggage dropped to ascend.

It’s apparent to me if your old skin
stays on past the morning
of life, but how terrible, nations
and nominal selves
who cannot untether 1st being,

the unwanted weight, at a tilt,
Success is in your lack of looking back,
you character, you complete
deep working active mine of Personality:

so whether in your life you made the honours
list, detention halls, or had one
hand cranking it in cubicles
to restart a bossy heart stalled,
and all declined from lack of evidence,

the pickpocket commerce of saviours, incense,
inflatable life-insurance, whether you stepped
over all the books of all the world’s religions,
or tripped, your honour, yourself, survivor,
donor, in the back seat, or the driver,
you cannot not know of your Success.



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from Present Of ITSELF

10. Simians, Babies, Emissions & Closure

A great world, masterful;
postcard memories, cyclone warnings,
hurricane machinery;

whether Engineering
or genuinely warming:
this wet world,

a great machinery
of holographic dramas, equal
periodic restive/freezing,

carbon, missions, Maunder minimums,
Africa, waiting to be restored,
Napoleon on through the English lords

in this great cauldron of the sea-nest world,
in the game of thrones, on maps redrawn,
the sacking of the pyramids, kittens in the creek:

the President speaks, the Pope goes next,
the Mullah and the Viking and the Pop Star meet.
The curtain goes down. The curtain goes up.

The villain’s swapped roles with the clown.
And the people come home, and every so often
the furniture is changed, and the room takes on

a universal plan. The grass browns out,
the grass goes green,
the moon fades slowly from the scene.

How strange, you knew, as the cameras rolled,
the ape would take the baby from the platform fall.

Stars pass over, the word goes out
the prince trips over, towers come down.

Towers go up, the hammer is dropped,
the builder takes another from his birthday belt.
The prize fighter shakes, he stammers and feints,
the crowds stand up, to whistle and clap;
the jockey is thrown from the steep hill chase,
the dogs veer left, the dogs veer right,
the fox runs into the underground night.

An old nun dies, rubbish and lies,
a boy grows up, his one sweet heart,
his car full of friends, tunnelling worms
making love with themselves, the beautiful
movement of snakes, big eights
under bonnets with the airbrush work,
a little bit demonic. In trouble, in resistance
the princess jerks on the operating table;
the Press release, the Press hold back,
more fuel is poured on the fire of the fable,
as the wreaths, rotting at the castle gates,
indicate only her kismet dates…

Or how about this? Math is back-engineering.
One (1) is anything chasing its tail.

Zero’s the one thing catching itself.
All numbers are fractions.


11. Sugared Milk

Yellow roses in the fog, it’s happened,
the ape holds the baby as Staff descend

with a cocked dart gun, their customary
strength; to live, one life, and let go.

Of the good world. The great life,
counting on something else

with cradles and graves, musicians
and spiders, and other frequency

-sensitive creatures
with black and leathery hands,

moist reflective eyes.
One hard birth

on this good world
heartbreakingly moving

without going anywhere.
The Willows weep

and children weep
as the storekeeper sweeps

their empty cones, the sugared milk
melting on the Star-named stones.

Who would we, groan and smile,
lying with a smile…

Not for all the ill funds in
the Neutral Bankers’ Till,

would we give up, the losing smile,
in plain words, thank you,

cluttered with an ancient misadventure.



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the Drun Kaiwoz

Hearing, in the flat, bicycles fired
at the house, the same like the way the boys
and I used to, pushing off the peddles,
full of prank and sass, the voice of the
leader, puberty beginning to lift the
first skin of childhood, like a cicada—
clear like the clapping of waterfalls,
wet force of being Life, in the first torrent
of spring, in the desert, from a
hundred and forty miles away, or the
dry thunder of magazines dropping their
shells, the hot spent cartridge scent.
I haven’t had to count up missing hours,
or form, for years, or locate the source
of an unknown scent and I look around my
rented space, no bottles, or wine-stains,
no broken glass, no ashtrays on the floor, or
mattress airing– drying, no shat smell, lingering
fingers, above the keyboard, steady; sober
over anything found like money on the lawn
in the morning, dewy, decimal after the shindigs,
piss-ups, sessions, the lost nights given squelch,
coin-cold sober over anything; fame, wealth, love;
consistent, resilient, spontaneous, ordinary.
I’ve over-used the snake analogy, but how
uncomfortable, to see men and women carry
about the stuck skins of childhood, not completely
out, hanging off them like polyps, like undischarged sleeping bags.




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Two More Poems About My Self

1. Dreso.

I was eager, proud, and resolute
and I had yet to recognise
only very little
of my Will
inhaled talking, filled
the breath
with words exhaled

like moths
or wasps or worse
the ear made
the dirty feet of flies.

I did a lot I guess
I thought it play
resolutely eager
on subjects made of aether

and behaved, like oneness
was undoing his zipper
behind your back.
You can remember

standing on a stool
while you changed
a light, bulb
in your mouth
standing on a chair
on a couch
to reach the fitting?

Such thoughts were I
found nudging on
their unstable platforms
thoughts which made you
grimace, I simply
did not realise
this branch of mankind bandaged
held together by an anguish
of monopolised protections
and the unsaid relied on by Denial

to condition, shape, craft,
mind superluminal
conditions I said mind-control
to low flying estimates
of Ambition great and detrimental.



2. Al-Fur Altitudes.

Small furies, nothing major,
in a way Society was a method
to achieve an altitude
in which the ‘I’ of all participants
could let in understanding of itself
relative the ‘yourself’ in others.

and, as the eye measures height
relative to the ground, and males
take their bearings on horizons
of ‘women’ relative experience,
in this instance, on the occasion
of the poem, and only for the transverse
way a Poem lays across the page
relative the actual occurrence, the ‘feminine’
here is represented…or hairless,
as the memory takes it, in Males, bodiborn,
dancerlean, altered forms of men
in divisive, sad mathematics,
that, if used to your advantage,
you will better comprehend
the femiNine, the oddness of it
has the mystery of a number
which returns an individual to itself:
I was the one less hurt, a type
of zero multiplied by nought,
so I gave them rounded Hermes
health, so I thought,…well, stamina, at least,
taking her into these hands
to do the math, to smooth the mended fur of foxes
who had fought amongst each other
for the Cock. I filled their pantries,
picked their locks, I trimmed their tails—
it will mean more than it should
once it is written out, and dismantled,
wholly many crimes full of strut,
but I didn’t give a toss, or else
I was a mutt, arriving unannounced,
in me gel, blotto, ditto stolen flowers,
who sniffs you through your pants,
leaving that distracting imposition
of impression in your field
of thought, they were Taxis at a Club
where androgyny was the norm.,
all stiffs, and butts, the dotted eyes
and cuts, and nothing was recorded,
and with all kinds reported, on the side,
saddle, ride the males, cried coming
to the femi-nine, a schemer, things…
to know ya baby, born to sooth this wound
of gender, it will leave a lot unsolved,
a lot of extra pudding, padding pushing in your crotch,
leaving raised the one I had to carry;
the single bone…gawd, cd u imagine
if they married? other strays pawed away as well
at what you had us bury in your backyard, you widget,
you MeaTapp, you weigh us palm to palm; you run
engraved forearms between the buttocks,
crevice to the novice, I’d entice you visit
me, to slip you one alone, and, in a way, Society,
to slip you one as well, I’d say I showed you all
my scars; one to one, I had my wavelength—
who doesn’t, I ran things, at least I thought myself
the boss of smallness hurt, you could loan
me to your friends, I knew just when to leave,
shame would take years to recognise, now
it’s only there as something happened, a
curio-college to my insight
development; I came right, eventually,
over-ratio to begin with, so I circled
like the hound of thirty three
lines ago, unsure of where the trail led,
poet/looter, after pure emotion,
hungry for your feelings, the ones
distort our thinking,
like cluster galaxies bending
with their gravity combined the light
of other stars, the awesome natural self
emoting, but in groups, and the interfering
intellect messing up the transcript
like massive aggregates of institutional
conditioning, entrainment, keeping us
all a-taxi-ing, refuelling on their runways,
changing your mind without you, and that
was where the stool-kicking happened—
which is not to imply, not to admit I knew,
and took a pick and mallet to the cornerstones
of light cemented usable as ‘true’
thoughts, composite usually, alloy
-dented foundations Balance depends on—
but so many, so often, everywhere, resulting
in my solitude at parties
celebrating that very ratio
of expectation and reward, for now
sniffing around the room alone, a small radio
will do, tuned to the furry edges
on a spice rack playing obscure quartets.
And as one Age kneels down, dying
—& forget the little plane a moment,
and forget the shemen, the femi-nines, it is you,
in your own time, making touch
at the feral point of being yourself,
alloys of bone and photon, I can see this
Society as she had seen it, & I wish it more
than a common taking, a thing
to want to live up to, but I’m cool
with it now, today, and tomorrow.

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Hello Friend


Playing my old guitar ,
Old days like dead stars, falling apart
Memories hold me back, they’re trying to Steal my dreams away
I’ve never seen such a lonely heart, making my six string Rot and stale.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Please don’t forget our time she said,
the time when we played and laughed away
the time when you kissed my soul, my name
for all to see who loved us just the same.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away,
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken it’s not the same.

Oh I see,
you played with me played with my name
My soul feels tired, it wants to rest now
my heart is broken it needs to be fixed now
Just go away get the fuck away,
The time has come for you to go home now.
Just leave me in pain, let me be how I know I need to
I cannot be broken I am not my old six string.
Though I’ve lost my name, but soon I’ll find it.

A broken guitar
Broken from inside and outside
I can hear the screams of pain that has stayed Of late.

Hello Friend,

you’re back again asking me what I have to say
Well Can you hear my six strings fade away
There was a time, it had a name, now it’s just broken, has lost its name

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Tight Lull Pleasure In The Pride

the nights are cooling off
and little in my heart has changed, that
swing latch
box with sticking hook, the

on the lid to lift a shot
glass, and draw the heat
into the rolled tobacco leaf
order extra p…

nah, bra, bro-ken-deal
I get in my unpissed bed
this is how I roll now, this is why I feel
the same good in the morning
as when the day is coming to an end,
off more years than on —how it goes,
what is lost and never known
sober, I don’t care to know,
nothin’ walkin’ those opposed again,
always something wrong, a type
of fresh anxiety, behaviour
or neglected invitation, totally
untrustable, the poet and his alcohol.

the clean, the dry and stainless
bedding, the courtesy of calmness
as the fish are in the ocean, sit below
the poster of them waiting for yr burger
the floating calm too of birds, or man
facing his death alone, secret smile
on her face, hunted all day, the gear
improving, this sideways walk, this wide
continuously stable happy mind

if mind is what it is
we’re projected from, say ‘into’
and the ‘not said’ is more truthful

there is anarchy shaping but like a light
that can’t stay on, the fitting tampered
with I don’t know anything, said

I hear things, and repeat them
without knowing if it’s true, this tamper;

intro Autumn coffee, awesome cake,
and wandering the park, a notebook
filling up, the art galleries, home
before it is dark, the van temporarily
away the days off the extra blanket
isn’t needed it joins the pillows up
against the glass window of the rear door.




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from A Pilgrimage Of Snails


Small odours hold in the walnut-
panelled Glory Box, in special coffins
for the life remembered, lined
with pale silk; there, that’s your face,
bent around the convex plane
of the unused silver spoon
commemorating royalty,

succession, continuity;
that’s your name,
on the ticket stubs and programmes;
a poster with your fame,
almost overgrown
by the main event,
which was always you,
stopping to roll the rich grass,

an inch greener near the river,
as you lay there, beside the opaque
cooling flow, thinking
deep and slow.


That’s you, needs a polish,
the infinite complexity
of patterns, the massed
and wriggling trillions

upon trillions of intelligent
yegling squiggles Particle
Colliders accelerate for:
the Moment— is pattern

and you are followed
for programmes of Prediction,
and all which seeks to manage
and control the chaos,

as it domineers
in its return, always
to disable the despotic
software systems

of genomic mimicry.


Id, I.D., Rfid, IRD: can anyone
this known truely be unique?
happiest the moment, is it Movement?

E.motion, as you ripple or splash,
and dependant on your entry in the barroom,
your presence, in the mirror, in her mind,

to admire, to align, the stroke,
along your top lip, to show you ride
that wave, a joke; you’ve a memory, or is it:

a Manufactured Presence?


The Ages, as today, as days before;
yes, you are, all day, and all night.
In sleep, and not at fault, and no remorse,
because there is no blame, and no,
no you’re not, as you went, bearing
your heart upon the granite columns

and stub-crushed alters of the pavement.
Saw in each the same
hard mad trouble we ride
ahead of ourselves, in designer

A thing worried on is a miracle forfeited.
At this place, of Now, day or night,
in such a way, as you are able— grab
the wild situation, until each moment
clears itself. That’s it, happy are we truest
in the courage of no future care
to where we end, exactly where we are—
a pressing in the light from underneath.




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