it’s time to move he says can’t have you falling down the stairs at every chance you get attention seeking our home is perfection she says looking out over the ocean other houses hidden from view and no barking dogs but they start looking anyway at hutches and rabbit warrens neighbours within spitting distance as…
Month: May 2017
What my daddy done told me
skinny women look cold my pa always said – for warming the bed man needs buxom instead, somehow that has always cheered me up considerable
A Boy
Our feet are pools of dust Where the gums lean. The scent sits on the breeze, A sun-stirred perfume. We were here long ago With a carefree boy. He kicked the stones, Aimed at the stars: He never missed, he said. He winked at us As the May cold came in. Perhaps he is here…
real crack
have come at last to love again the sun; spring, the end of death; sheep on the hill, toil of the first man to dig his fingers in the soil, feel blessed, love: love, You: the glass between us cracked, our fingers touch: Light, Blood..
‘Immunity Beyond Repair’
Far deeper lies all reason for my churlishness For most unbridled qualities are seldom seen unless one genuinely explores the sedimentary depth of human nature, of pain or the life that has been “How sad,” they say “Such a broken man!” “How wrong they are,” say I When ’tis merely a tried and true…
A is for Acrimony
Armageddon activates annihilation awaits – are any attending? alarming arrays and arresting affrays autocrats amending as angels accord an acrid award – ashes are ascending
Anzac Stills
The one-armed man, jogging early on the Anzac morning by the Dolphin Swimming headquarters as I restored recycling stations, fulfilling them their emptiness, his Accidentally Beautiful shored my loopy-portal to this world of comedy, this dark & crushing slap-stick and further back, the same spoof performed as I was entering the Gardens planted as memorial…
the torn, the bloodied khaki
the torn, the bloodied khaki for anzac day, 2017 the service the hymn we stumbled through all over now the crosses placed for the event there in the dew, notes and even photos fixed to a few by family born in the castled distance of years since, off the other side of that hill we…
Cobwebs
a layer of cobwebs sticks to my fingers like candy floss but does not taste of strawberry sitting stale and bitter on my tongue yet cannot be swept aside a patina develops on surfaces reflecting only blurred images the true grain of the wood is lost polishing no longer an option cobwebs gather
the street at night
1 There are stars, real like the glass in your hand, that burn, for instance. 2 The road, golden grey in the limp light, sedate behind the pane; bleak frond leaves beat light to the wind, him thru the glass: only 1 car shall pass this next hour; but if you stare…
Tip-Top: The Tipping Spot
It was the beginning of the redo. I’d blown my photographic career, sold my gear in desperation. I was about to come off fifteen years of climbing and I didn’t know it but i had unconsciously begun to prepare the catch net of myself physically by cycling across the city twice a day. I wore…
puss-puss
right foot left – s’il te plait.. le chat likes it tight, tip- top on/across the moon- beam like.. & I’m like that as no-one hears me come & no-one, sss– hears you either.