Sunday, 19 June 2016


shit bru
just the sound of it
and I’m back
best time
flying down
through the bush
lighting up darts
calling out the names
of it was sweet
drinking at the airpot
then flying home in
squeaky wheels

Friday, 17 June 2016


there's a misanthrope
living in my head
it speaks out of turn and takes everything
say with a grain or two
salt and never misses a chance to
chew up only
the most odious
of detritus

spouts dictums
with a laodicean tone
argumentum ad verecundiam
it screams as I
to make love to
my lady

yet the presence is
at times
something of a piquant -
at least I can
the paranoia
reverberating through
the nights
all amongst the
silent trees

foretelling and
resonant raspberries
on the
swollen belly
of the pregnant
woman who
refuses to give
her unborn
the expected

snap snap snap all along the path 
with cheese on toast

Thursday, 12 May 2016


yip yip - yup yup !!

now read it the rite way
back down back up  
to acknowledge
what we choose
but without is only
of endlessness within
there's still the chat chat chatter ing
happy jaws that do no snapping
down on the water 

- - - -     or up in the sky or
today is nothing compared the evening between
upon by our own hands \ / can you tell the difference?
tonight we are the carrion torn apart and feasted
know that
a fuck up but they'll never  
up is actually
scavenging this close
knob head 
read it the right way

Tuesday, 10 May 2016


sitting on the grass
to cancel out the pain
dock leaf on nettle sting
she showed me
a tiny book made
by her own hands but
she seemed to forget i
no longer loved her
all bathed in light
and never did 

Thursday, 10 March 2016


So plant. So plant.
It's a plant plant situation
and it's getting more plant.
Your soil, your soil
it gives birth to your roots.
Your roots, your roots
they give birth to your stem.
So stem, your stem
it's a stem stem situation,
and it's giving birth to the leaves.
Oh leaves, oh yeah, it's a leaves leaves
situation, and it's getting more leaves.
They look, at me, and they think
I'm the light. The light, oh light
and they try to photosynthesise me.
Oh yeah, photo, synthesisation.
My light, sweet light, nourishes the leaves.
Oh leaves, oh yeah, they give birth back to
the stem.
Sweet stem, yeah stem,
it gives light back to the roots.
Sweet roots, plant roots, gives it
all back to the soil.
And me, sweet me, I make poems
to the tune of Elton John
and Blue.
So blue, yeah blue,
blueblue blue blue de do.

Tuesday, 2 February 2016


"This is where I always go..." he spoke to his fever, and habitually motioned to throw off that old dust sheet...

"There be cataracts here go back months..."

He stoppeed short.

A small mouse darted across the floor...

The old chair by the window with the L in the spine had been uncovered, straightened, paused upon and thought about.

"My fever is too damn high", he said out loud. " Nobody comes here no more!"

And at that he passed out, rolled onto the floor and dreamed of opening an old time poetry saloon. A place where folks could be free, say poems about what they wanted to say them about, even about the bad times, the old times and the end of times. He'd open it one day, and the ink would be limitless. If only his fever would pass...


its been a while
some kind of
where have we all gone ?
tick fuck tick fuck tick fuck
time, that old bastard, creeps up and jollys you
can't be a surprise
he's there
every day
with his ancient hard on
you just
shuffle about and kick rocks
into a dead smile 
over hearing
'look son, this is where the artists used to go'
now, they don't.
spread far and wide
(not really) but
taking each day
as it cums in your shoes and you squelch it around
trying not to cause a fuss or feel embarrassed
about the complete absurdity
spunky shoes