Saturday, 23 August 2014

2 New Poems

A Kiss Or Something

My American love, the stories we could
star in ice storm Boston harbour's blue,
in the pastiche patchwork of Sante Fe style
rooftop spectres and Highway 61 underpass sketches.

We could write tales in the rust red pine,
draw new shades on orange grove pyres,
in unison sing out rough folklore’s lyricbook,
pages scattered, torn in Nevada's wearing winter wind.

We could swim hymnal-spoke riverside,
length-stride of great men in footprints unfilled;
it would be the giving up, the molt of
rosary-tossed and spectacle-seeking rejections.

We could, we could, couldn't we?

After Hours

You find it in the whispers
of hushed-clatter Italian leather
in Tuesday torrents and half-shaven
Wednesday mirror morning, nothing
so fine as being close.

You find it in the vicious
deadened bus brake screen
cast of buzzing beer brand neon
in pockmarked late-early pizza
grease and plate paper stain windows.

I find it in the faint
scent of placard paint on
your lipstick traces, memoriam
of brick shavings and teargas
temperament you hold like a family broach-pin.

I find it in the cold
honeysuckle stick of November's
skipping rapids sunlight to the
Ikea shelving and anarchist cookbooks:
a sentiment we thought worth sharing.

Sunday, 10 August 2014

2 New Poems

Colour Corrections 

The facade of remembrance,
a descent of wool-eyed shroud,
blocking out pieces, stations one
could say, to the current of
river stone smoothness, perfections
of straight razor and stained glass.

We are always red, flush with youthful
bloom, in hindsight haze, while in
the moment we wasted hourglass grain
as idle shore with pacing about,
with shoe tracks beating out
hesitant pitter-taps, most unlike

the wild symphonies we recall.

Waking Up Too Late

You pour something special,
concord-Kosher sickly sweet:
the softer kind of IV injection,
the easier thing than talking
stark under-dressed and over-worried.

You balance the task-tools as
spinning plate syndrome, watch
burning shadows on plaster walls
in their bleach-scrubbed indifference,
wondering about how lipstick stains might look.

You recover to the half-tick and
rustle of overtaxed wind-chimes, of
underused bedsheets, curtain
colliding with cast of pale light
crusted eyelash on quarter-past

Sunday noon.

Tuesday, 5 August 2014

1 New Poem

Brittle Bones

All those times in the tangle of taxi stand
flickers, the in-out of Manhattan and Uptown
imagination; just some sidecar street in
a town of half-suited data punch cards,
in truth, I held hands close, waiting

Ruminations cooled in dinette set embrace,
each piece embittered and chipped to edge,
handled with utter care, but ever indifferent
in the place we sat as unconvinced
etchings of two people who spent the

and tonight these airs alone may well
pierce skin.