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that superseded the stolen item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