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‘shame to stop

2 steps short

of hell’s exit

( – Alighieri, Dante);


hard to turn;

go on; to lie, hear

the pulse between

my ears..burn;


apt (is it), bad

luck or.. – what a shit

of a trip i could

drop but for


(i confess) my

irrational belief

in..discipline which

is i admit –


Still i

scrawl in the garage

(tools, disused, &

who-knows-what, you

can be sure does not,

magical, come-to when you

leave the room);


slouch on my best shit-

brown couch, down

night & day.


But I’m not as scared

as I once was – of

dogs, bees, the flowers

that conceal them;

and water  (because

when you step on it you go down

and all that is good – faith in man,

football, politics… is



When I nearly drowned I thought

of nothing. In the loft however

years later when a live wire

shook my hand and wouldn’t let go,

I thought something more –

like sorrow, but then the fuse snapped

and after that I went to bed and had

the dreams of a child again); strangers,

the otherness-





Distillation of the Self – Note: remember this:


my last poem should be like

liquid drops squeezed from the pulp;


lean, light like high white

birds in the cold-blue sky

of morning.


This is something to aspire to (like – ).

Isn’t it. So pure it

may/be imageless; mere

cuts from the black abstracts

that flap in the dark dark night (like – );


maybe soundless too,

extrasensory. might

call it 0 or even less

because nothing will be

except ..;  the bare -..


If I could isolate it ex-

tract abstract it from…

I could..

it would be like..

I might split as

the flesh does from the soul,

free at..




Last, i request to be

burnt, buried; dug

up, hung. As willow

light like black silk

, limp on the thorn; i


rise like burnt

flakes in the high

wind and live

lightly, never care


. which is good, not

morbid, but up

– like burnt

flakes in the wind, which

aspire to..


After Christmas I clean the garage up –

in the new year.




Could I dispense with rhythm as well?

Verse? Forget myself




in the garden, snap

the twigs,

for instance, tending the vines;


but all that’s left is

but sap as, composed,

I recollect. Some sticks, is

unsaid & that’s fine

no-one ever knows

what goes

on because

if you saw my dreams

you’d have me guillotined

like bob dylan,

but even he would be spared –

here, in America  –

now, yet..


We’re self-assured like we were

in ’76 which was

(we knew not) the end.


Some were astute enough to smell the decadence

and kicked the door in.




It’s happening again. Come

friendly bombs:


do the old boot boys in –

in Surbiton, Hamilton

– tending the flowers

in the garden. The grapes

shall be late this year.


No, hit those guys, who got drunk

& caused trouble down this street –

students; now in summer suits:

bloody lawyers & accountants –

get them!




Big Business.

Trumpist, blow yr big… horn,

come                                                     (Freedom/no Taxes/ no Government

(: Yawn))

over us.




I have 24 years left to live.



Dec ’16

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