Wednesday, March 24, 2021


 I held a cloth over my mouth

a strip of colour before me, an entrance to the new world

of smoke                                screens

the shape of everything was distorted

my own body

craving rest I talked to noone

and in that silence I listened

found there was no silence

and my eyes burned from information

Above is the blue sky, today, but what tomorrow

and what is above the sky

please let it be wondrous, untouched





Thursday, January 21, 2021

Paris Encore

The pregnant woman on the metro, teenage desire marker penned onto the plastic walls, a scar tracking time, the man, the eyes, fullness of space 

Emerging to dancehall in the underground. Architecture overground. A city of protest alive with music and laughter. Police like black scarabs of dark arts. A city lit 



The erotic potential, the civilised calm, the gentile, the glamour, the men devouring food pissing in the streets 

I want you to take me. Your mouth, your body pressed against mine, your hands shaping my silhouette, thrusting, urging, deep 

I will turn up wearing the red shoes and we will not say anything. Just push our bodies together and talk that way until the afternoon light 

Kupka gazed at the source and kept telling its tale. A brilliant flame that kept burning 

As soon as I walked into the entrance of Le Jardin des Plantes I felt tranquility. The breath of the trees, the songs of the birds and everywhere was green and plentiful. My being slowed down and I enjoyed each and every step as I explored the exquisite gardens. I had wanted his kiss but not at the price of the day. His kiss in the furthest regions and folds of the sky, the meteorites the stars 

Alto laugh 

You were the light at dawn. You were the bird song 

Perhaps I was woken by that aubade by a nameless formless lover. It is his body that comes to me. It is his fingers that trace my history and drinks of me in the morning light and in the evening 

Bad boys and four girls 

That will be you you will become the image dancing through the streets of Paris forever

Sunday, October 4, 2020

The Grand Ballet

In the dead of dead

in the night of night

there, you are, in front of yourself

in the mirror of your destiny

counting the years like receipts

in the accounting book of time

in the destiny of destiny

in the time of time

nothing matters

for all is played out then absorbed

each sharp pivot becoming soft memory

but only if there is someone to remember

In remembering the destiny you recover the night

your fingertips playing time across keys of illumination

you, the living memory of the dead, an onward step

here, now, after the give away

after each and every purge

after sickness became liberation

in the end you let go even hope

and smile with naked acceptance





Friday, August 7, 2020


What if the children were the gods

among us all the time

as we fenced them in and limited their

shining gods that stumble

see the loving mother showing him how to eat

like a bird with her

young we played those childhood games

but we saw other worlds

some of us didn't

return to truth can a heart harden

calcified from pain


in tiredness I believe the night has answers

but I rarely dwell in her blue

for dreams pull me and not just dreams

sometimes, perhaps one day, we will feel again

in renewed innocence

the god within our memory





Monday, June 29, 2020

American Flag

No one remembered the definitive moment that the baby’s screams stopped clawing the afternoon heat with rips of anxiety

They just became aware of the silence which struck to the gut with its sickening reason

The father’s hand fell away from clutching her dress
Family blood running familiar
clotting in the sidewalk
Her small body hit his as they both went down


with no opposite ever to occur again

The police chief wiped his brow, thinking of the paperwork
Lucky they were Hispanic; less money to buy trouble for him
but the baby getting shot was still going to take some explanation

The mother was being sick on the molten tarmac
smell of trauma and city mixed
Hitting her head with empty hands
forever empty hands
feeling the rip in her womb
The sound of that internal scream was rising, forcing its high fury and pain out through every pore
On all fours
swaying incoherent hurling incantations to curse her husband for using their baby as a shield

The marksmen exited to waiting vehicles
with debriefings to get the official line
they did not even exchange a look

but one looked at her

and felt repulsion for this outpouring
out there in full view bare and raw

He wanted to fuck her
Fuck her on the road, ram her ass and throw her down so her head split blood red gash

Then she turned and caught his eye
knew what this white policia was thinking
Seen that look before, felt those grabbing hands
heard the insults, been hit by spit

She caught his eye, hurled her ancestry
and the power of the grandmothers flew to avenge

First they ate those dead eyes
Then they pulled out that dead heart
and cackling, reduced him to slivers of flesh

the American flag to hoist high

Friday, June 26, 2020

The Chicken

Press Play

Wound tight by the blue screen
where once they called you Blue Sky
and you danced in fields with no money or home but a ride in a converted bus
in Wales or Greece or Holland or Australia

The modern-day cyber shroud pulls
a preventive to vertigo
You're always falling
and you say don't let me off at the next stop I need to keep going

But where is there to go now

What kind of times are these
perhaps the time to go on your knees
set the record button
ensure your heroes are on repeat