Wednesday, 7 December 2011


A cigarette by a city bin at 4am
is a liberating experience due
entirely to my placeless wastage.
Six tiny spheres join the rising sun
concentric to Alexander’s Gordian Knot.

Or if there’s another interpretation
of the sculptured mass I can’t pick it.
I’ll look up the artist one day coming.
I just take a stab instead of untangling
names, dates, and hey, it worked for Al.

Saturday, 26 November 2011


I cannot travel within your hours
Your seagulls don’t resemble the ones I see
But your large perception
That eccentric, strong, silent swagger
Your words could sustain an ox
Regrow a thick pine that had lost its vigour

Your glory was thinking aloud
Thoughts floating in your frisky bearded smile
Reducing or enhancing all angelic cherubs
To appear like cheap Christmas decorations

Blessed is your heart
Your iris spit infects your ink
Leaving no defacement upon our common air
Though I have never folded your Leaves
And need not

Saturday, 19 November 2011


The right man has been cornered.
His freedom quietly lost,
not five minutes hence
he enjoyed the smoky frost
against his cheek
as a devoted wanderer
of dime stores.

Pocketing the arbitrary trinket,
he strode crookedly towards the exit.
It was an item that no one cared to spare
a thought towards.

He did the proprietor a favour
by purloining such stock,
by offering space
where the customers did
but wince.

Now the browsers did not miss
the garish contrast
between the poorly-carved cherubs
and the opulent chandeliers,
as they noted the distance
between trash and pomp.

The foolish man gave a value
that superseded the stolen item
with its counterfeit charm.

Sunday, 6 November 2011


not quite sure
what against
my head did crash
or what did shift
my equilibrium
to bitumen
or sand

from pickled wakefulness
to shifty drink dawning
absolving people
to become acquainted
with their knees

and to see their faults
as if another’s
to see their girl behind
in another’s dress
hair and rings

Monday, 24 October 2011


scared & skinny
scare-crowed undercut
mandraked to her horse
like an erect clot of mane
taut & terrifying to her officers
her country
her king

stinking freemen
in mirrored puddles
of dank mud
rippled face upon face
her sole beacon
but she is outside
her democratic horror

Monday, 18 July 2011


You’re yawning up way too much
of this life
I’m just waiting for your death
so I can cherish your words
in another matter

I’m a reflection, rather than a thief
when it comes down
to syllables

What is needed is taken
What is taken isn’t yours
to begin with

What is ordained
remains the glowing ash
before the sweep

Stop your moon-trafficking
and dissolve

Friday, 1 July 2011


She is neither woman nor child
but she makes my gut weep
for suspenseful solitude

An abridgement of our life
Sorted, signed, and agreed upon
Shackled to the heart but not to the arms

Friday, 10 June 2011


tune your chord of silence
to my feverish song
not cold and coarse
but as if we were swinging
on those powerlines
in full-voltage silence

now dance to the chord
of my fever, not our fret
the one we knew best
if you recall the ways

turn away as a milky calf
pigheadedly mute, laugh
throw down your instrument
and kiss my unwashed cheek

Sunday, 22 May 2011


I don’t know about strength
but the sweetness of solitude
is all in my weak
of a heart

with the Book of Longing
floating nowhere
on two well-worn pillows