A conversation in a bar. On barstools. An alcoholic. She live at the bar. She lives in a bar. She’s homeless. So she lives upstairs. I came in to steady my nerves. Not that I need it all the time like you said you do. You said you need it every day. I only need…
Tag: writing
Rising Star
Cold, Cold night No one to say Hi !! So I look at the sky Clouds passing by Cold, Cold night I look up high Calling my Name A Star in the sky Lonely, Not alone but, I am fine, Said I Stars shining Bright I see them in the sky Sitting on a tree…
I am sorry
I am sorry I don’t want to stand still I want to begin to crawl And walk, run and jump But the sinking sand stops me Me and all of my stars high in the heavens. I am sorry My heart is weak and I am weak without a heart My lungs fill…
from Sandy Room #2
8 I hear footsteps and the blood begins to listen, the scrunch of boots on sand on concrete steps: coarse bristles crisp rusking on the steps… I swam here two seasons before the tremendous surge the summer, swore I’d wear my {~} more than I had been, habitat of work and that amazing pride a…
from Übermanis Geniac #2
7 Well, Jim, you’re dead, you know you are the only one who’s left behind a myth past the valour of his verse. A plinth has been erected, above a sewer, because poets translate muck back into water. The myth holds you versified in youth; I hated writing, couldn’t match my thought, speech likewise, stutters,…
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…
Symbolic Uneasy
The Dial’s swung round again: the Taupata autumns in berry clusters, tight bunches in flawless contrast, fire-orange in a roundness of green at the window, where the neighbour’s enormous grey cat climbs the step-ladder in like she lives here. Summer is three days gone, but the southern midday heat has weeks left, and if I…
Survived
It seems romantic, looking back on it, the withdrawing of 50¢ over the counter, before eftpos, I suppose, to have enough for cigarettes. It had back-story, engraved, or engineered, as when a writer’s past helps the reader grasp the sardines, and half eaten lifestyle salvaged from dumpsters with the lumps of bread I got free…