28 Dec 2017

Mind the Gap

Tenement, shuttered shopfront, tenement
and polite despair laid on thick like smog,
abandoned construction site—installation piece—
a layer of grime that’s just divine.

Island complex, people straightforward:
fear and detachment uniting us beneath power
lines where tos and fros go by in time lapse, idly
without cause or aspiration past submission.

Sun’s retired to fairer climes; we tunnel down
and down with the binge, drawn
by constant drone, that sound
more alive than we are, inside or out.

Anything you’re still missing is up there
on the shelf in between the gaudy and sickening,
but that one bitter cocktail, the fact of it all: out of reach.
What’s awake still sleeps, dreams, knows nightmare.

Nothing wrong with your eyes, mate:
serfs in soul to feudal rulers, honesty
to these as honour to—well—thieves, petty kings
for petty schemes, only cabinets instead of castles.

Mind the what? Mind the gap?
You mean the bloated abyss beyond
our grave new world—wait, do I know you?
It’s just, you look familiar.


Clay in need of shaping wonders
damply, grey in thought over the promise
of something surely better, a sculpture there
only in mind’s eye, formless like potential.

White Flag

In these things, one witness is plenty.
It’s less moth to the candle, more arsonist to the embers.
Some months are thirty days too long, and I had to ask
why we draw lines in the sand for the wind to move.

27 Nov 2017

To the Dead Bird

You’re what I felt closest to this week.
Flattened, still, unrecognisable against wet stone,
you had a familiar look of dejection on your face.
Tell me, how'd you get up from there?

25 Nov 2017

Like Circles Have Corners

How wrong for a shape not to fit
the slots that suit, assigned by masses
most comfortable with the one and zero,
what’s black or white, here or there
and nothing in between.

You are. You simply are
chaos and multitude,
burningly bright sky,
passing storm, dark little wave
on a sea of the forgettable.

Always Returning

Black river, soft shore
where scents mingle by rising
nape awaiting warmth.

Not knowing water
the gentlest riverbed rests
between sweet hilltops.

Opening up, field
is hesitant before that
fire sweeping on down.

Like this oasis
gives life, I offer myself,
rain falling to earth.

The air is soundless
for the breezes of content
over midnight bloom.

8 Nov 2017


Desperate, parched,
he tries to find footing in
a landslide new world.