‘Grope’ (Poem)

“C’mon! C’mon!”
She’s yelling at me.
I can’t. It’s awkward.
I want to ask something
terrible, but I can’t.
“C’mon!”
“It’s hard when you’re
yelling at me.”
She’s not appreciating this.
This is a favour.
A miserable, lonely favour.
What the hell is she thinking?
What the hell am I thinking?
I make some sound.
Like a happy, deep sound.
She stares at me. She knows
I’m a liar.
“So great,” I say.
“Hmm” she says, and coughs
into her palm.

‘Conservative’ (Poem)

I sat myself down in the stranger’s apartment,
asked for a light, was passed it.
He told me he had a guy living upstairs,
something of a “Sex Slave.”
Originally, he’d been taken there
against his will and imprisoned screaming like
an animal. That was years ago now.
He’d grown to quite like it up there —
New found simplicity. Quiet routine.
“It’s easy for him,” the stranger said,
as he sloshed half his beer across the
kitchen floor.
“What’s he got to worry about up there?
I’ve got to work, I’ve got bills,
I’ve got family problems!” I nodded gently,
hoping to impress. I looked to the ceiling,
swigging -– “He ever see the light of day?”
Someone else came in, sat down, took the light
from the table. She blew smoke out of her nostrils
and said “Hi, I’m Paula.”
I didn’t respond. I could hear the slave
stomping around upstairs and
hoped he was happy. I finished my beer and said
“Is it not, sort of, immoral –-
to have a man locked upstairs indefinitely?”
I read his expression — offended.
“He likes it! God, you’re so conservative,” he said.
I was far gone. I thought I’d go meet the sex slave
but second guessed myself and left.
Later that night, alone in bed,
I dreamt of my own gatekeeper, dreamt
of what I could achieve with free time like that.

‘Church by the Sea’ (Poem)

Conception accepted, denominations rejected,
uniformity practised in the
church by the sea.
Puritanical appointed, blessed child anointed,
mock modesty pointed in the
church by the sea.
Doctrine respected, old lies resurrected,
donations collected in the
church by the sea.
Congregation infected, home truths left neglected,
a lord still expected in the
church by the sea.

‘Sky’ (Poem)

I see you as I see the sky
and my sky cannot change.

It is a sky that asks questions,
a sky that is clear, open and pink,
a sky that is still, Persian and wild.

It is a sky that asks nothing,
a sky that is white, breathing and real,
a sky that is space, muted and grey.

I see you as I see the sky
and my sky cannot change.

‘Review’ (Poem)

They say it’s an ancient story.
That means its worked well before,
but now, well, I can’t pinpoint what it is
– let’s just say,
it does not read easy 
with modern audiences.

‘Old’ (Poem)

The other morning, I tried
to swing from a tree branch,
just as I did in childhood.
I gripped the bark, let the weight
drop from my legs and swung
outwards.
When the dogs
finally began to sniff
at the internal bleeding,
I couldn’t help but wonder,
am I getting too old
for this kind of behaviour
or is this kind of behaviour
getting too old for me?

‘Tropical Toast’ (Poem)

Beach side. The fire juggler
whips great circles of light
that dance on the mirror ocean
as we sit here sipping at Leo.
Here, you queue on the wire,
red lipped, staring teary-eyed
at a Siam sunrise,
on women, on grass piled to the corner-
tips of man civilised, heavenly lobby
amidst puritan reefs and ebbing
currents, kicks taken freely
into counterfeit nights.
Velvety mistress horizon implies
there are no bad dreams when it’s right
no dish tower overshadowing,
no fingers rifling through
shambolic pockets behind,

so evergreen, so alive.
in the rhythms of shaman beats, in impossible
crowds, be at ease in lonely paradise,
in this night’s warm breeze
on an island sand shore-line
somewhere East of anything
remotely important.

Yes, this night’s warm breeze.
That’s something I’ll always be found
drinking to.

‘Weight’ (Poem)

every abortion story
every fitness regime
every satirical column
every anonymous photograph
every ill-thought opinion
every million-dollar home
every charity campaign
every film review
every written interview
every moral outrage
every scientific theory
every car model
every new prophet
every state law
every pizza advert
every armed protester
every online resource
every sexy number
every self help book
every pension plan

has nothing whatsoever to do
with who I really am.

‘Dishwasher’ (Poem)

I was filling my dishwasher
listening to Sunday morning news,
when I thought about the dead.
I thought about the millions of dead
the war dead, the diseased dead, the old dead
the dead who just died one day
filling their dishwasher.
I thought about the dead and thought about
how they died for me, supposedly
their peeling faces
their rigid spines
their open mouths
and the newsreader said
stock prices crashed today
due to economic panic in China.
Then I thought about the Chinese dead
and the death of the markets
and continued
to stack plates next to plates
mugs next to mugs
praying that something might
fill me as neatly as the dead fill
the bulletins
and as quietly as I fill this
this dishwasher.

‘Kara’ (Poem)

In her we created something perfect, fine
art on my part accidental genius, brighter
than a thousand moons racing to distant hum.
Holy trinity we three are windows on the
same house, where she spontaneity I death
and you the insatiable life thrive and balance
beautifully in memory and now. Laughter beats at
arid figure digits, poverty sorrow change in
tower block of colour. She knows not
what we hide from, the distance void scars,
the dead men in all of us,
dead people in time shackled hands,
backs against the light, the refusal, the refunds.

She knows no symbols,
only language in blazing wonder
and the endless possibilities,
caught in slit between being awake and being alive.
A love to beacon radiance, crystal cut
heart breaker, purity darker than forest without
eyes, without avarice, without deity howl,
through highland mist the Goddess prow
come sweeping to Celtic whistles, distant hum
enchanted forest music, dance on
dance on, hear them on the winged drum
she’s come, she’s come
she’s come, she’s come.