Sunday, 9 July 2017

1 New Poem

Still Bleeding

Second-hand pains, worn washcloth
in downcast river triage,
that won’t do so much from these
red-white blood rushes I get
outside of exact modulations,

When I don’t want to speak a
single thing more poisoned with
firewater wash and boot-heel echoes,
as I knew it always did with
the muddy tracking over grass carpet;
still committed, but dulled with click-clack

How I heard still the trilling of front
lawn keyboards, in the brittle whine-chant
of police sirens.

Two being one, as cheap kitchen shears
to rip and tear at bones, to chip
away at map lines,

But didn’t hit the same damp way:
firework pageant,

Friday, 7 July 2017

1 New Poem

Bigger Things

Something to say was:
you taught me the difference,
between peppermint-vodka stings
of sticking throat in younger

those ways I always thought
it felt for boys whose shirts
fit bitter, who sat more
still, could focus on time

Between all that and
stiff breach it feels to
not know what to call you
in tumbling digit-point,
except alive,

Alive in wan hues,
but without a word in
infinite scripts to call,

Making it so seeming bitter,
these half-spun living rooms of
faces scarcely held to minute
flicker of waxy imprint,

Marking the celebration of high holy
nationalists’ days, that scale so
far to stretch a sink water sky

Sunday, 9 April 2017

1 New Poem


It goes in dry lightning time,
the unroofed ambition exposed
beneath bombastic clamour of sky:

how I came in as a foundling
on brow tile kitchen floor,
how it begets the bunk science
of heartworm checks, copacetic
constructions for the dawn’s

call of bracketed faces chased
through myth mazes of foggy
forgetting; fallen, stippled daguerreotype
in the word-spent witching hour.

You absquatulated, rushed as
electric windmill swift, to
be but dank rumour again:

a cold tomb kind of place to go.

Thursday, 2 March 2017

1 New Poem

States of Movement

The glass still traces blood oak aromas,
a tilling kind of cross wind about cabin
planks: how you kept names in mind,

How little you brought up separations in
voice, the mild blankness of clock
faces, when we had nowhere to be.

This is racing to a kindness calm,
a criss-crossing shrug of rewinding
tapes that trace too much back,

Too much the literate piecemeal,
Monday nights with computation cracking,
spirals to same ends, as ever.

But I’m still here, still the light dust
of heavy airs, they find a long release
in, still pretending to float

Above the muddy-roofed buildings,
above the petty fading of shirt collar
kiss marks, diving back to cold ground.

Friday, 10 February 2017

1 New Poem


I watch you standing, framed
in palatial stone, red and still
with crackles of unbound telephone
wire, hints of burning grass hillside
draw a smearing blood trace,
a sheet metal sprawl;

You lean against the chalk dusting
walls, finding rune carvings of old
gods upon them,

You are light, glow in the breeze
of six-lane streets.

You turn from the noise, back
to swinging cranes of capital
infusion, the umbrella stands
of blanket street sellers;

They looked so coloured, something
more than barren trees and Weberian
brick that stare back from
daylight windowsills,

I can’t walk through
so easily now.

Wednesday, 1 February 2017

1 New Poem

The Protest of Widows

I look upon the harp-string, still emerald
with graceful touch of old Eire’s whimsy
fingers, still ringing with notes of
scrap page brustling upon whiskey
sting of washing ice, the sunlight
orange-tinged through panes of Sunday,

the morning with police whistles and
charming coffee shop signs,
where I sat with warming water
radiator, the spikey paint job of
staircase handrails, where I fall down
in heart with pitter-patter logic

of staying in with equilateral
electricity, of having that choice
to organize the bric-a-brac in
closets or standing with dynamite
stick girls on grey stone corners.

How I came to be so believed,
talking about both sides of
chewing through a sinew spark
of crashing waves, too much drawing
of digital curtains from the problem,

but why did I have such choices?

Is it skin that I have lost in
scrapping up against bars of
dead iron gating?

No, the kind I still have.

Sunday, 29 January 2017

1 New Poem

Paper Skins

The pallid sting in off-yellow afternoons,
we turn once over as sandstone rummage

to make quiet bearable
(but I like the silence with dressed

blue you, and the bedknob artifacts
of wind chime naturalism; could have

stood in it longer than that since left
stutter I wish I’d lose like twenty

pounds of unneeded packing), to make
our writing on each other’s sky-like

vestments a slashing, ancient kind,
burning stalk field alight with

brittle confession, alight with
pausing persistence of hostel fridge

beer bottles, with frazzling
hand gestures when words are over with.

Papyrus script hand, click-tapping
a heel-shoe rhythm with rise-fall

of knotted chest muscle, accidents
of close quarters where you draw

an olden symbol upon our days
without meaning to, and crossing

wires in haphazard design.

Monday, 9 January 2017

1 New Poem

Tides & You
This crashing stretches out,
infinite in crest and ever-looming
shape, the same as water salt,
mixed solution.

You never loved us like you did
the sunshine, the humid air,
the longing liberation from too clean
streets and last year’s fashions.

But it isn’t some crafted secret,
something you have to work
with plastic line-make triangle,
with bureaucratic nooses and parchment paper.

How much more could it be,
else written between the space
of Renaissance star charts and
space age thinking of the year?

But, then, the obviousness of cross waves
becomes an often mystery at these
elevations, the winding down of roadways
procession-like in exact time.

Thursday, 5 January 2017

1 New Poem

Books in Bed

It was well enough for me,
this silence in summer-mocking air,
this calm of constant refrain from
the bedside bookstand to the motioned
figures beneath sheets, living like
we’d gotten on in years past the
fitful flirtations of collegiate clumsiness,
past the blues of honeymoon contemplation
to that open water of cool-eyed passions,
still embers that heat rooms when the
windows are open.

It was so close for once,
that shade of sun you kept imprinted
in skin, that sinew of toughened mystique
you had in glittering presence, and
all those figures you had in shapely

But aren’t you still that bad girl’s
blandishments, that one all those Llosa
novels, all that cheap whiskey talk,
all the tired grandee strutting
had warned against?

Oh, in stillness, how wrong it was
to believe,

though it was enough for me,
if not for you.

Sunday, 1 January 2017

1 New Poem

Stay Awhile

Someday I’ll smile upon this smoothing
of Sol bottle labels with thumb
under jazz band din, circular fluctuation
of brass man’s hands flick-fluttering
against a winnowing of Christmas light
shock, against the drawing-up of plentitude
maps we write as youth’s cartographers,
our muse of darkening light-fingered

yes, some day, but without the
flesh-coloured mortification of dancing
about these old-time words for a
great motion of meaning, stirring
renditions of pastime prizes and
the things that never seem as they
do in greeting cards, in Halloween films.

You stay, though, the breathing of
heavy traffic but a bitter memorial
of honesty’s forbearance and the
swung tempo of attempted lover’s
hands; you stay, though why
can be but yours to answer.

So, stay. Here. Just a little while.

Just until the greyer dawn of
years, just until forever stops.