Saturday, March 10, 2018


city sounds like city
urban raw and full of pity
for the deaf and the blind

ocean in the black street below
waves like traffic on
on asphalt or hot tar or
whatever it takes however far you go

through city sounds
cotton silent and underground
paths for the hearing and sighted

flushed with wine glass feeding
words of remembering
metro gone north for the
geese that race safe to the reservoir

city breathes as city does
scratching earth for life
for love of urban scent requited

in the lungs the after thoughts
underneath the gaming noughts
killer boots upon the ground
poetry left unrenowned

city wandering
cold called floundering
she remains unknown
she remains a foundling

eyeing age with a heart in disguise
bars are loaded
she folds under the skies
wine is still coded her age defies

city wandering
cold called floundering
she remains unknown
she remains a foundling

she retrains the song
she remains the wanderer

Saturday, March 3, 2018

what we forget to remember
are the flat tires fixed 
by roadside strangers
we forget when young we 
snatched the cane of an overlord
and righted the elder
with no intent
like a swan necked round a lover
feathers laid back in alarm
are you my hero
are you here to harm
this is the universe crawling begotten
this is the friendship
we are faced with uncertain
how many times have I drunk
elixir well spoken in language
I know when I’m drunk and broken
it comes back forever
this drink this reposting
beware of the bulls when they
crash through the wrong
I am drunk and unhinged
bored with bleating song
Make a video of this
you panting sad poseurs
this city ain’t dead
though it makes a great poem
this city ain’t dead’
though it makes a great poem.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018


I don’t sleep until I’ve drunk
all the wine to sea level
until I’ve come down
from the mountain
alighted on a limb
I don’t sleep easily when
I refuse to give in
secret lives make me hunger
for rare is the time
a story is realized
without the wine
when it comes, this sleep
this battle I’ve waged
silence reacts like
a dream uncaged
sober, I wake to what
the muse demands
sober, I write while
the cats eye the day
we miss you, they whine
in the creeping night
your drunken unburdening
your nail-biting ride
to a story you’ve
unearthed at the bottom of a glass
while we sleep in the daylight
and you are free at last
a paw needs licking
a head needs kissing
the rule book’s in place
and as she ages
they give her the floor
write a story, they say
until you can’t anymore
we’ll carry on leaping in
late night intent
while you carry on making
your way to repent
tomorrow is always a fickle thing
bravado or Zen is challenging
the secret of life
are cows not so far
from the writer
we trust or we don’t anymore
it’s the path we’d rather
a sober collective or
a bloody bother
I don’t sleep until
I contact the courier
I don’t sleep until
I drink the blood of the warrior

Saturday, November 18, 2017

canvas sky unknown
game called travelers have flown
golden diamond

WHAADYA DO when your book is finally approved for printing? Sit back and relax and await delivery? Why you start back in on the next batch of short stories and their characters…all new, all waiting to be heard.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

Among Us

what was less then
what was lost
what was found in
in our round table
was mostly future
among the cats and the wine
what we failed was the nurture
we traveled away
from the canvas the studio
we huddled too close
to the answer the obvious
I shed you
I did
for my own self worth
Sacrificed you for me
Still undecided
You touched the bottle
a reprimand to my flight
I understood
too late
too angry to fight
Amsterdam pulled the plug
Amsterdam was the flood
that lifted me over redeeming waters
I was young then and mostly drunk
I was young then
and mostly alone
you tracked how I flew
my singular path
Breakfast in Amsterdam
Breakfast was a drag
And I made a picture
of us in the round
Of us as artists underground
the basement the studio
I have never recovered
your sly criticisms
your tiny canvases of mirth
I am still here

That’s my singular birth

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

the spell

For Carole with reservations
before I knew it I’m roped
tied to a heart you call dope
until the wheels fall apart
on that nail driven road and
I shatter the mirror that
fails your rear view
before I know it shit happens
hot as the blast from my secret weapon
when the clues break away
from the you meant to stay
under spells I’ve forgiven
who I am to rattle your mission
before you know it’s that rope
tightens years on those lies
hands me a wasteland too heavy to fly
nothing to do but drive on
through a firestorm of redemption
from the me meant to stay
it’s going and coming from under the spell
it’s me with the age of the tarot that tells
it’s me in a crown of the victory wreath
it’s you who’s to grieve
the race never won
nothing gained in those lies
nothing to do now but salute
that road we’ve been on
paved with dying allude
nothing to do but delete and drive on
from you

Saturday, October 7, 2017

it’s the miraculous
in the normal, he said
she glanced up from
her reading
what she did before bed
what do you mean
she asked
her question loaded
these small things
between them
often exploded
these small things
between lovers
that came with warnings

it’s the miraculous
in the normal, he said
she turned round
from her stirring
a traveler returned
with small gifts
that unraveled
like a story retold
lentils with cumin
simmered on the stove
they were still human
she kept them fed

it’s the miraculous
in the normal, he said
she glanced up from
her reading
what she did before bed
like the darkness
in prisons she said
like gold in decay
when night becomes
the hard light of day
keep it simple, he said
straight forward
at home or abroad
take time for the tea
wear good shoes for the road

It’s the miraculous
in the normal, he said
gently insistent
she glanced up from 
her reading
what she did before bed
I know what you mean,
she whispered

it lives in my head