Wednesday, 12 October 2011


the low grasp clipped,
 vowels and subtlety howls
 through edgeless pages
 infinite stages
raspy tell tales
 and tall men
with dipped heads,
lead boots
and silver tongues
 massaging themselves
through tight spaces
and up elevator shafts,
into swank apartments,
 into private compartments,
into silences
so weighted
that they grasp all of the lightness of your lungs,
 in a handshake.


the minute ticks over and there are a whole new set of birthdays,
a wave of newborn babies, north facing, brave hearts racing,
tables set up in dust bowls, ready to be weather worn,
balsa wood and running wet rust.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011


in love with ideas, with love, with crying,
 with tears and tears
and baskets down river, up stream, full of futures,
corruptible fallacies,
 lying next to cold bodies,
crafting hollow shells out of oak cabinets,
 in love with the sight of a mud slide
that i'm in the direct path of,
 sumptuous banquets at my wake,
 sweetly made promises of an end
promises made to myself
in the cold arms of the night,
sweet promises of ghost written novels
 and sell out shows.
as this all slips and comes to blows.


I coughed an insult into my hand and,
all of the shivers came running out of their hides,
a water birth in a bath with no curtain,
the privacy, the person, the mercy mislaid,
some continent is calling for new blood,
and the motherland is bleeding out red.

Sunday, 2 October 2011


All of the old parables are bleeding out of my nose,
and i'm pulling up my britches but i'm standing on my toes,
while we've cleaned out our old sofa, we set fire to the throw.
Flaking like chocolate frozen and supreme, its raining forked lightening
and I'm swimming upstream,
I've been sold old ideas, i've been told to go,
i'm lithe and i'm wily but i'm tired and i'm slow.


standing on tip toes, atop dry ice glaciers that dip,
sinking almost half below, the rigmarole,
like the parable of Marilyn Monroe,
pirouetting neatly, lost completely.


I could fill you up with empty promises, hot air to flush faces,
bright sparks from broken matches, burnt out, stubbed out cigarettes,
hung heads, broken hearts and course, spat regrets, no I regret nothing,
I fret nothing, back and forth, pacing rooms and reaching into letter boxes,
desperate reclamation of misspelt, unintended intentions,
fretting up and down in patterns, unguided raw invention,
I dreamt I saw you, cried because you weren't there and did nothing,
it kills me.

there are hoards of burning furies 
in the back of our minds,
 tides abated by hung juries,
 wasting time, 
like a fly kept from beer 
by a stuffed wedge of lime.