h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6, n1, n0

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Municipality of Ashfield Derive 4/11/15

My affinities with certain artists and poets - this also means especially a wren with butterflies as lotus, and her notebook...

i've walked the continuity of parks repeatedly, finding food, rings, playing cards on the street

i also found the black rose in black silver gold lewisham telegraph grid... those who know love and anarchy of Australian frontier wars might understand my drift as i found the tree and the grove near the light rail greenway of the new arlington grove

my furious tears at "the" Summer Hill.

My brown england.

In the Ashfield Municipality...you may think me mad, even those who know Sydney! And that's OK

Nov 4, 2015 ARP

Friday, August 4, 2017

First - a prose poem

For ab

The one. The only one.

I've read happiness and the truth about pain in glossy magazines. Who.? Who is first? Who's the one?

We look back to our loves like books. “In this catalogue, you were the beautiful one.” “in this list you were the first to touch me in my room.” “you were the one.” “you were so funny.”

It says here you are first not any other else. It says here God is first. It says here the other precedes me. It also says one belongs to no-one. I think how can primacy and u r u universal revolving unity be socked all in one person? I untangle that at least there's two. The one and the other one, both the icon of one to each other.

I've heard the one for us be disparaged as a mindfuck. I've heard too whatever image of shared open cosmos and love as open mutual gift carding, the best exchanges – puts the struggle behind us. Tonight we walked the finest tracks sans fear or compromise. I've read too that nature is the final arbiter. Everyone hit the deck. The relativism of heart rate, pulse...

It's essential. If nothing's essential, your sunk dig at essencing is also an essentialing.

Is love the one?

You are the one for me. How can you know they're the one? Someone wants a few people so to reach the result of one or the universal constant of one and love.

You are the love of my life – you can read that as the other person representing the idea of loving your life; as you love your life. Any light can cloud over, when all is shit your lover disrobes this cover and the shattered beam now gleams bright; because they have love of your life and the struggle of clouds.

This is sleuthing. Identikits and Baker Street deduction.

Who? What about what. What/what? How to: find. How much and many how do you dos. Where and when?

How much?

Lots and lots and lots and lots.
How to?
In mutual parallel. Somewhere a gift.
Where scarce is just a spooky scare.


Beforehand. Before I can use it. Before it even existed for me. Surprise me.

Wednesday, July 19, 2017


isling an aisle
islet of hands
trace of veins
ink copied
post circle
throw song
patch up rain
sweep dry the street
it cometh in sheets
weep right 
blanket of snow
willow of sleet
sleeping pillow
plotline of neck
plotinus en tout
the sickness of chickens
asclepius, leap to my defence
henoi, kenossos
some song to brood
clip wing and sew
stitch as hammer blow
aiaia ennea
this rain is cast
this cold is wet
small spring chipped with ice
jungle of pores
drops the temperature
bare feet on no track
some song of blood
summonsing sun
send messenger
sand and salt
take this eye
let you view it
et set this trap
snap metal tap
pace circle
shore song
take prisoners

Monday, May 29, 2017

Work on Air

the sky is firm
for sole of feet
solid is thickened ozone
like soil as shield beneath
for sole of feet

someone flies me
this time like a kite
this time someone
this time not me

play timeme
visual transplant
audial orbit
plastic haptic

phasis a river
appears static
appears a spahi
secreted in pockets
spahsis ex-echo
Saiph blue sword of Orion
the source of night
blushes bluish

Monday, February 13, 2017

Viscous Circle

The broadcast of trees and streets
rests from steer and call,
from rite of tiers
from green terse trace
of bird, insect and wheel

from a bed a section of
a plane is heard
fuselage and wings
dread of scission
leap of leg and claw

take measure in walking
the hole beneath my feet
hold telephone cabling
bundled, twisted
take a leaf from a book from a tree
street and leaf

don't fall or fail to fall
the second voice
sotto voce share phonics
not words. the tree in my lungs,
the chirp in the bones witness and nest


Exchange of Reticence

In arm's length from fruit and flower
banks of blossoming, nests and noise

the romance of paths and gates withdrew
like drained vessels, bloodless and thirsty

my flesh periodically pale

and when branch, bud or face
stayed disappeared

i grew as fire grows

divine burn
and those returned to touch

and this fire retreats for love
of integrities

some of you share time and room
some drag me from sticks and kindling

i cannot allow this fire to burn
in our time

so i will stay here out of sight

Temporary Mutation

the echo to where i speak
in triplicate to an exterium
that bouncing back grabs
conjunction by the sides

laughter and return
to a body where this
arm doesn't go through
that arm

allow me to make some space

where my voice is clear
of tungsten and I am lighter.

this changes my centre of gravity.
i'm used to it

Blackwattle Bay scene

Silk takes no arrow
yet the birds sing stitching
the morning like a sewing machine,

its heavy pedal comes as traffic comes.
Hums the poise of bridges, brick and metal
the fuels to soil and water.

No one walks their dog or waltzes
their sweetheart but a volume of
bed, lamp and shade

launches out a window.
Any rain we get shows no posture,
all face value, wilful patter and pour.

The horns of tugs sound
with haul and engine stomp.
Daylight is about to take over.


The Uses of Emotion

Happiness assists with forgetfulness

and is found in calendars

Sadness helps loss be remembered
and contributes to our linear sense of time

Poetry is sometimes found on stationery.

The concrete became flesh

The concrete became flesh and we dwelt
here I was taken in
I sighed here
there i walked
the face of my enemy

here there are four walls
the four for safety in danger
here i am given a ceiling
because the night sky
will kidnap me

and the moon
eats sleep and soul.
i shouldn't have survived childhood
it has slaughtered enough

and i give grace and sacred regard
to the richness of silence
it's the line transversal
where the hymnus
is carried

sing concrete firmus
what terrestrial cloud would be like.
here in the projects
the city lights are distant enough
for long pauses, if i stand or lie
x or y


Quiet, by night

quiet, by night
under the surface,
and inaudible.
seamless skin sans scars
disappearance to horizon
mainly abstract
visible between eyes
come closer
the rib cage rises
eyes close
far from prying eyes
little loves and loathes
swash off platform
raze for the rage
wash for the wait
hatred for the carnival
the flash, the crowd, the cause celebre
as it returns home
to the salt and seed
the grain and the withstanding
to purge allergy
inhale the garbage as harvest
here the itch
here the headless bed
here the stomach
here the rule of threes
here the numerology
for finding places on maps
for asleep under sheets
i am temporarily dead
merciful solitary



floss of fine gut
to smudge off the blue sugar

stuck in my instrument smile.
toothy comb for the harp of my hair.

water the garden of limbs and torso
giftwrap my feet and tarp to top

ready for washsink sense
and gridded tile maps

showerhead state infrastructure

We are quiet

We are quiet
between thunders

between you and I -
the deferral of the decision

to appear. We will keep to
spinning with our bestiaries.

This is how to belong
half-facing to the plenary world

how not to be swept away
by heavy rain

by conquest of the suspect.
In the event of beautiful events

do not break the glass.
Though the room

is curtained our hearts
gave short quake at daybreak.

Alchemy sensory and basal

What the sage knows all know
common cuts, sleight of hands
a mechanism of sets and Zs

shape of salt, run of liquid,
agitation of solution,
shake of plants,

scent and piss of animal,
foldable flat, sinkable hole,
call back and call forth.

Mostly worldly even heavens are
mostly flesh the image
incomplete the metaphor

and we find it
at loss
and rearranging

you can't forget
to forget
or you can't force it yet


Destigmatic - a note

What are the things I love and value about myself that overlap between health and sickness?

For example, being high spirited. With grace and art this is an admired pillar of many personalities. With the stain of mood disorder the purity of the positive esteem of high spiritedness is compromised - it's self-stigmatised in my case.

I reclaim the positive evaluation of such features and virtues. They gave me fear. I would gaze askew at such things. "Is this symptomatology?" I would ask myself

I am going to accept these things. Having had the feelings of unbearable euphoria in the past I feel that de-stigmatising myself is similar in buoyancy but not unbearability

I am re-evaluating all the pharmakon as Plato would put it. Is my laughter, say, medicine or poison?

Having a mood disorder can lead to questions like "is this joy I'm experiencing OK?" Such self-questioning is self checking for safety. I put it to the reader that such self-doubting is exhausting after - years. I've come to realise from others that yes I have an illness and sometimes I'm going to be ok, maybe a lot of the times. Sometimes it's ok to be at ease and at ease with the energy that will present itself as vigilance and I ask that energy to present itself as something of more love, happiness with some sort of gesture of social equanimity. Be it warmth, home, modesty, bonhomie or friendship.

Alchemy sensory and otherwise to reach the midheavens

Meditate as a Roman would
on Platonic solids
in a neoclassical time period if you like.

Listen to nightclub music.
Change your views to that
black is brilliant and thin lightning

of electric blue be like
zero dimensional stars
stretched to line

on the midheavens
with where, where
imperceptible grids.

Think that the cold
sparkles with icicles
through your breadth.

Imagine you are inseparable
from the cycle-circle cosmos.
Imagine this truth, and the immersion

into poeison, the small trick does dose.
Unburden the gestated egg of accident
and chasm. Inhale endlessly.

The arrival of patterns, loops in rug,
the track of medieval libraries,
the reception of fragments of text

by voice. The milk of ecstasy pouring
from dance, from rough and smooth silks
from meteoric walls, from the echo of embrace

and your ingestion. This release in relative ease
is what I think people imagine post death to be
in a time of arrays of radio mapping,

how astronomy makes us pine like
animals for sex, for death as postcarnal
renewal. the idea of our totality with others

without the weight of morality of what are their thoughts
and because you don't exist consequence is not the
sharp wound. If you were around all around but not

absent, what would it be like - if you knew?


My Mind

My mind is cloud shadow
hovering over the hemispheres

bells lacustrine
oblique deltas

what I cannot catch
but can perceive

is thus the complementarity.
the fish swims

the bird perches.
the bird flies

the fish stays.
My sideways arc

plots the bird diving
for the purpose of

moving the roam.
The fish glides by air
and the bird lingers underwater

The fish perches
and the bird swims.

Feathers fluff from my mouth
and my skin is sheer silver.

I am perhaps every animal
my brain holds

I am every animal dream
my mind can follow

I've been amphibian, damp
with forgetting and lust

reptilian bruxism
mammalian unity

hominid groupings
and human clockwork

grasping cognizance
thought and thinking

about thought
the expressivity of sync

and error, the wash
of a day's laze where

my mind is lake
cloud shadow

oblique delta
I dreamt I forgot

and could recall the story
and remember the lapse when awake

trauma is so close to dream
in linguistic family trees.

Trees that hold nesting fish
and drying birds.



I've marked out indices in the rooms where I live

all zig zagging and the house yawns out open windows

and speaks to passers-by.

I have nothing but to give

out! with my blankets on the street

mattress bedbase books.

At point E I fling framed paintings, my meaningful certificates, photos

I throw out my bags, cutlery and crockery

At point N I ditch my clothes, electrics and toiletries

I throw myself out wearing only sharks teeth.


Flash fiction - thems the breaks

They passed the note to them and they held their hand in their pocket. They had a gentle worldliness to them but their friends wondered if they were in love with them, the two. The farewell in partial declaration, incomplete sentences and half formed letters. They to them as this us is not we and I as the vertical sole height we hope transcends our death - our us is not theirs. We say and we say and we say as well.


From the room night
is overrun with leaves and near river -

a low boat engine sounds
bang of the fuel tank.

Over the porch
there's a few house lights

and a party where I can
hear glasses and greetings.



We stick to the day
like unobserved law

you are awake when I am awake
and I sleep before you

what I reap in the informality
of broken passages of dream

you bundle in sole logic
the light of your work

attracting moth and sparrow.

Thursday, September 29, 2016


When you return
you're like a different identity
different landmarks
of unannounced discoveries.

you are potent with journeys
with love, names written in
concrete, solitary nights
where you could have smashed
all your belongings

and like a door way opening
onto the street I have a certain
facticity about me that
passers-by note and nod to
a throughway - in or out
most divide by this clique.
some catch the conduit of
primary drift

some place, some window,
some afternoon, some consistent error,
perhaps with a floral joy, you will
grab me without me knowing and say
"you're still the same" and i decline
to comment, to under the horizon
of conference just so I realise I'm the same,
relapsing in proof, my inhalation and vision
gone to manifold blood

i am happy that we can tell the direction
of sandstone walls, of traffic, of stupid events
dans la rue, but when we hug goodbye
i think it will be years or never. that's
the revolving regret.


by dream I get in contact with the firm gelatin of the brain

Improvisation around meeting my friend Virginia

Am I the only one 

atop a pillar
in a room
of footsteps
and spoken

the book drops
and when I say this
the book drops

I won't fill my
words with master
founder directives

this actuates
and the book
stays dropped

you, my companion,
are dressed for
a day's salt and breeze

this thing we shared
was a castle,
a poetic treasury
that belonged to no one

but twos threes manies 
I am taking direction
of interrupting words

"I'll help you calculate it"
let me place it any when

at the end of the length
is a gap like fully brightened
plasma bubbles

neurone like a piece
of stretched chewing gum
making strawberry flavoured
spider webs

and how I halt for shape
grace suggests order.

Wednesday, September 7, 2016


When you were born
arriving like an arrow amongst arrows
many organisms, geological ages,
cities, books and ideas passed

and now live on planets of prior Earths.
A butterfly lives in a room for centuries.
The shock felt by running into a friend
felt by a Burgher now is the form
of exchange for intercontinental economies.

Death and love scurry through blouses
and pockets where ungraspable air
would do here. Precipitation and scorch
are what musical instruments bring

to ears of seasons and joy is the flicker
of night dotted through perennial day.

The future comes like such a born arrow
though I'm confounded to which reserved
planet it arrives from. As some may wish
to be ancient butterflies living in rooms

wish for longevity and the reassembly
of all shapes in the flick of a risen bedsheet.


Taking parts of the river
locked in a suitcase
to enjoy and study
and see if the voices

re-emerge from
the ausland of negativity
busy with letters
envelopes the internal

compartments of
this suitcase of coordinates
of catcradle between
the floors of my hotel

the mezzanine threading through
appearing from a place I cannot see
as a klein bottle
where I am drunk

with the river bugs
who are drunk off me
(a swell party)
i unpack the river

trope and table top
and I push and poke
to feel its calm noise
"yes this is a good one"

and i coach it along
to my river parts
collection. somehow, like
connecting cables

a great unified glow
and hum will form
as I rewire the building.

Clothes on the Floor

We were in close chambers for a year
had stepped across each others thresholds.
We brought lifelong obscura, our sour
drops of stories that together stirred
made lakes in common

you and the distrust of the utterance of love
and rightly so when tooling for manipulation
and unusually early.

and i doubting the contracts as cover
if trust has housed love with doors
and the windows tall as metres.

In our onyx lakes a deep laughter
rises from the fabric of semiprecious waters...
it was all best heard outside of the workplace
and in the quarantine of just a phone call

last thing i remember you saying was
you had a full bad hair day. i was plumbing about
ensuing government reforms and what tickets
it could afford me and my final return to
the four walls.

I pray that gold is met with gold. your art, the bookreadings,
the nootropics. Outside of the end of this poem are classical 
nylon strings marching along the tangly tree of a guitar, sing

Half-bird Poem

They are keepsakes
whichwhatever words.

they're kept for ideas
that became human
and wandered off.

or other selves fallen
from parapets like sick birds

these whichway when-whatever words
empty walnut shells floating
on leaf-littered stormwater

that arrive in a thatch
arch bundle
bird pooped
bird tired

arrived at grey flocks.
array stopped swans
swimming for day

and those who live
in my streets
the retaining walls held back
the spit of stars, flakes of missed

it held back the fro
of visiting storms
that we meet with umbrellas
or wished-for barques

for those who live on my streets
gifts come from mouths full
of wave and wont

the coo of warm misery
here is hat and habitat.

Separate Ghost - flash fiction

I spent nights watching walls. Car headlights slithering past, in a series like cards falling.

The traffic continued. On full moons the moonlight would shine cylindrically on my face.

I finally saw him one night walk into the living room lit with hovering headlights. I saw his upright shadow for a moment. He disappeared after a couple of steps.

I left the beacon of the living room out of fear. I took some breath outdoors. In front of the house gate the upright shadow arrived again. A few paces and it left. Was this a pattern?

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Mountain Garden

In winter, heat first arrives as a vertical wish.
Somewhere deep in a park
inside the nowhere between
night and morning

shadows wave on barely audible ground
and from behind a fence
the smell of paraffin

awakens the iron of other stars
older than death and touch-a-two-skins.
There is a pressing - projecting.
Comes cover and it is coldest
before dawn. My mouth sings to itself.

The wind is joyless.
I will sleep under the grass
and in the morning I will
create a new calendar

to make sure I live a full century.
Tomorrow there will be flowers
and a few summers worth
of drinking.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Slept Psychology

Only when eyelids knock on each other
for the purposes of entry
do they close and shut you in.

Here is a pillow you can use
for a mattress
to take advantage

of rapid rapping on
black doors.
I'm trying to remember
the last time I remembered
penumbra of tunnelling
door frames.

Yes, that's apt and topological
like a sticky tape trapeze
bouncing back to wakefulness
please - blankets of
abstract black squares
with the trusted texture of wool

that preface homeliness
with snoring and saliva -
snuggling and snoring
swaddling. Tonight
before the eyelids knock
on each other
(the tangent is located below)
gaffer tape will see me
bound and bouncing free
on the adhesive trapeze.

Then somehow it's good morning
later in the shake of sleep
pillowcase as my sheet.

Friday, June 24, 2016


The ground is rented
but I own my bed,
the expanse of water
between my lot
of clothes on the floor
and the days I've lived
and measured out.

These possessions
that hold me
lap up.
At times the level
of grasp and acquisition
drowns me in
symbolic rooms
juggling pink,
yellow and blue
detergent liquids.

I've swallowed them
in childhood poisonings
and the reminder to
rouse and acquire in
my pills. Alchemy of care
so that the wave
of memory, bone,
renewed marrow,
blood cells keeps

navigable. Acquaintances
have shelved meaning. Yes
I'm meeting someone at 11
and there's a Dewey decimal
call number. Ring if you run late.
Somewhere in the relay of my
appointments there's a life threatening
emergency. There has to be.

I habituate to my
gathering appointments
that are bulging in my wallet.
I could give an appointment to charity
for those bereft. This allows acquiescence
to venerable Acquisition - saint of the church
of scarcity.

That's an appointment I'd keep.


i'm invisible
your eyes are covered

we swap

handover dogs
and cats laughing

Short story - Outcastings I

dedicated to Shelley

I don't know how she dreams but the faces seem clear.

Her room is inhabited by 19th century white cloth, brown furniture arriving decades later and sundial mossed over with the patina of cognition. There's a small ceramic based bonsai pot plant. She stays and dreams here when the night finally gets home.

The face for the last stints of sleep was handsome, brown, young, black hair, eyebrows, moustache and beard. This face can't hear her as yet.

Night has left for the day and the dreams collapse at a busstop, slumped on a steel seat with headphones buzzing bass.

She is shocked and is moved to speak. "Hello I just want to say something" she speaks moving her head to get his attention.

He removes his headphones. "I have seen you in my dreams and have drawn your face a few times. I want to just look at your face for a while." she trusted in the accepting and happy nature of the young.

"Yes sure" he said.

In the five minutes before the bus came the two were enveloped in hermetic dream. The symmetry of cheekbones, the round flash of eyes, the localised whorls of hair. Perception played sleight of hand when the two hopped on the bus whose windows were sore with sweat and faces finding themselves.


In the salt of your surface
account was made for the lost lover
who even coming to senses
after taking steps away
first aloof aloft on the roof
at night, without tears
or maudlin songs of watermills
working with only the sound of chains and gears
under a clouded night
stars behind the wide white sash

a stroke meant for number became
morality for loss whose remedy was
disappearance. this was an amassing
of avoidant personalities' weapon of reason
being withdrawal.

It didn't matter how much
music i dug in the concrete of
catacombs still i was unable to
lose my love and tenderness in the crowd. 
I always hated being Cloy Roy.
It's like a hat I have said I will get rid of
still in my hands.

I can only say I miss you as fact.
My years also self counsel to
be brief though all I want is
the repose of rivers in
conversation with the life
on the banks. Brevity here
is only silence so one
can walk alone and ask
quiet questions when one must.

Where can I loose my loss jams?
Lock it up in a poem, in all
activities until something gives
and I can be candid in person.
This may never happen here
but as an idea we think it cracked
cloudmill riversafe hatacombcatacomb.

Monday, June 13, 2016

A prose poem

layers of tunnels - long horizontal, partial and interrupted, entwined and overlapping conceptually speaking. embedded in bedding, wedded in webbing. the faith in love of this traversable earth of maze beckons visions - tempts hopefuls to rush - makes visions. somewhere in the bounce, stasis and spin it came to me in the water, the wooden cup, the wooden water and the furniture, the would. this is what would.

the tunnels' sheer soil wall surged and squeezed with frost's delicate light. here a street scene, there a scene blown up to city scale. a city name and so coordinates. only the night, the night as a story we live in. the day fools us that somehow we reach landfall on the return of augenblick. but we must be able to speak to each other for we've not yet agreed to drink from the same sink and wells.

here I arrive at port with papers. a long pier and my luggage wheels roll quietly on the boards. there is now the opening of passageways upon passageways without the act of will from me.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

The Fish of Wisdom

carpe diem
but not too much
yet with full gusto
take, savour the
middle path! don't
be excessive though
all things in balance
even balance and when
you fall do it all the way
and fall face first but safely
not too safely pretty please.

Monday, May 30, 2016

green kurraba point ferry

fast of rope and fish in the sump
and the whole whiff of salt wood and spur
make broad motor heave, beam crack
and the cable zings in the cross breeze.

the prow drops and we lurch at the handbars,
sewn to line nearing the wharf
where the white flats, boutique stores and zoo are.

the jetty's peeled paint
and bollards from rusted factories,
the papery faded seaweed. my first step 
is like its on scales and i breathe ill once. 

you shake your legs and sneakers.
there's a steep hill up before the music
and drinks - we've traversed the cupped palms of bays.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Just getting out of the house

After the loathing
of leaving care unfinished
and then for the next
to the next

I walk out as a child
going to school
with focus
covered by the
benign wool of parents

as I turn the first block
I broadly smile
a decade older
with beach and pop music.

Foreseeing here that
I will be crossing the road
I have reached 30 years
of age

my breath is still bright
yet decisions have been made
about some vigilance
about tripping on the concrete.
I carry folders and pens.

I am meeting a long lived sometimes friend
there's a new beam to this
as my oldest friend here
knows well from
the leprous corpse et
obsessive exhuming
to the games
between chain gang companions
locks picked by longing
and protraction

the once were

i must hatefully leave the care
i cannot complete for my wishes
and then for the next
to the next.

Rooms I've Lived In

Every life framed by floor and wall
and doorways being boundary
for distinct sets of events.

Here I breathe, mutter to myself
receive oblique traffic noise
and reminders of happy hour

where loveless stink in reverse cycle
will count for dismal ease and picky freedom
the world may rush so I act as anchor

you can call it apathy or denial
you could be right because i don't care
only in infinitesimal moments

chaining back to my child patterns
in rooms where I closed my eyes often
the fear of hominids in me

and the erasing lessons the more rooms
my memory gives me to live in.
it is a phalanstere -

one room a dance hall
the other a shadow theatre and
kitchens that had absolutely nothing

occur in them.


The work left undone by
bedtime digs at my
caged cavity

planting seeds of lava
and the spat simmer
of volcanos hammering away

the haptic labour
of debt and deadline
crisscross the capillaries

in planetary faces
face value to the drunk
means nothing
but a chance for
checking coat pockets,
hat pickets and the paid packet

we shall not be told but
we shall place our bombs
of love in diplomatic opportunism

though somewhere adjacent
to these perimeters there'll
be denied resolutions
swallowed by sleep

a surfeit of parameters
an obloquy of partiality
a choice between delayed
gratification of soft refusal
or slow abandonment
until you find low rent

and we can meet on the outside
somewhere where you or I work
and where I'll never have to hear
"thankyou" again as forgery for
exhausted rage

Sunday, April 24, 2016


I like being presented problems

this is one of my very few current luxuries

no drugs no grog no sex curtail computer use

but there's the phone and smoke signals

my pokey little room which is kind of nice

the food I eat but most of my pleasure

from it is egoic "don't *I* have a swell diet?"

i'll be cutting on those things too

i'm slow to learn somethings

i just got a joke after 10 years the other day

I am not a natural sadomasochist

and the few monies I get

I'm pretty unimaginative with it

how many curios can I collect

i don't collect curios

and then going out to buy clothes

i'm groaning already - first or second hand

each have their charm and their limits

luxury fuck off

one of my few luxuries

with love you pay

but a sneer is free

even that I must curtail

and then there's just me

very pleasant on a good day

Poem upon having my solitude excluded

me and John Forbes are suntanning
in Annandale,

"John what's your take on Baudrillard
at Lightning Ridge?"

we sip our wets, actifed CC
i think of my childhood

"have a swig of this"
"thanks, so much better!"

"How many Mark O'Connors
were there? or were the other ones just taking notes?
amanuenses as heteronym as clones"

"Well" he says, "what does he drink?"

and it's Grahame Greene ginger wine
whiskey and water, or

writing in scuba gear lumbered with
a Sydney Olympics 2000 snazzy (yellowed) raincoat

in 2009.

"underwater pens, john - orpheus in the undertow."

It's poxy Arthur who introduced Derrida to Australia
via Gleebooks.

we smoke.

"I'm joining Mark at the Salvation Army Tempe Tip.
I can't stand another drink.

John, let's ask someone who's just dropped acid if LSD is dated
I want the real deal, mouth horse and stable."

"what do you think of Juan Davila, Ariel?"

"me? I'd be late to the launch shutdown by police. summer wilderness and chilean winters? [i flip the bird] and i really shouldn't be suntanning, it doesn't go with my North Face aspect"

"actifed cc?"

"ok now's a better time than any"

Browser History

A medicine cabinet
black box at [IP address]
pinging the wreckage
of urge and
dilettante scratchings

what happened to
all the pastel websites?
design without designers.

companies selling apps
don't bother with pleasing
the larger screen
and they're not even selling gelato.

Some histories were deep net -
accessing the streaming
CC-TV filming a compound's
car park and industrial dumpster.

Rarer histories walking around missile sites
telecommunicational shamen
connecting to the satellite grid,
armies of spiders, shell programs
catching shoal of links, wielding
DOS commands for DoS damage.

And the big histories
names, dates, battles
byzantine mazes
the type that make
money sweat, pillars wave fingers,
movies, news.

A Lyric

I talk to myself
and then I turn the volume down

lower than under my breath
and now I'm humming my words.

for an hour or two I was thinking
about where those words are coming from

going to. Who is saying them?
Like, this hummingbird monologue

is not an originary song.
I am talking these words like I am

reading someone else's words.
the perpendicular thing about this is

that they're not someone else's words,
they're mine. my sing song subecho

squawk - it's when my voice is someone else's.
die anderen, die anderen, if you hear me

groan in tune then it's the hummingbird and me.
My closed lips and teeth are cage.

The cantus firmus in its frequencies
give me rest, massages me like an Aum

and the grill stops someone else's ahem
the disapproving ghosts of norming

in my room, the bird flying the coop!
The vertical music is some consensus

or a multiple player Mexican stand-off/
Russian roulette

Nightly white bullets
at five paces and 30 milligrams.

The hummingbird nuzzles
up to me with its delicate curvy beak

and tickles me with its tongue.
A Mozartian tangle

After all these houses I've lived in
the dust as luggage

there is pollen in my four chambers.

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Good Night

roasted lambency
and rosency
under a rusted coruscating
iron roof

horses piddling in totality
in a grassy fielding
sundaying eveningly

rest less or morwell

hope you ate well too
guten acht tout

Tuesday, April 12, 2016


making a map
of our bare breath

memory and signs
landmarks on the flats
the regular waves

i'm making you a trapeze
for your fun
in lieu of my maths homework
you dismount

like a drenched athlete
embracing me as i leave

the relay in pause
and some past
pulse approaches
subtly but in
unexpected density

chronologies of adrenalin
cycle once a minute

and in epoche of insomnias
after knowing which orthogonal
presence charts the tangles
and clear combinatorics of
causation let slip

in my double step
the secret apologies
of imperfect darwinisms
i take pace

gifting double shutter eyes
building in truths

your mama loved you
making things

today just be useful
and like a multiball
in pinball games

we are circles motioning
and colliding

and so i can rest
i think of you asleep

"PĂȘcherie at night" Victor Hugo


be yourself
said i as you

i am the type
of person who

says be yourself.
that's me!

said i as you

Sunday, March 13, 2016

bel canto

the croaking stopped
for a moment

the rococo mirror
required no glance.

and in my room
my phone rings

your image comes up
and I'm speaking to
your photo
as well as you.

and I heard the bell
ring again

"will someone see who that is?"

the bell keeps ringing so
i go to the door
and waiting, a solid block
of sunlight

runs right over me

Sunday, February 14, 2016


[cosmos as experienced dome and mortal metronome]

It happened again.

No pose of reverie. The return of the dead

and the return of exterminant cosmos

I metabolised the night

without a year's creep of horror.

Last night I meditated on an axis.

the graph was infested with traffic

above, below, peripheral

I blanketed myself with the black

of the universe to protect myself

from wailing gut illness

house plagued with headlights and truck brakes

the night after opened up a dome

of star frequencies in flow

simultaneous modulation

mobile in spheres

open band spilling with

radio statics

the hum of all

human existences.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

To Cut a Pair of Scissors - flash fiction

I don't know if the scissors broke when the bird then sang.

Abelito was seated on the chair. His wealthy grandfather called for the magic woman of the area to cast a spell - to bestow a charmed life on Abel.

Under the chair was an open pair of scissors.

I don't know if those scissors broke. I think so. I like thinking so too.

Abelito had a ruinous life. He stopped talking about himself at least as early as his children were born. Sleeping under bridges, a monstrously mad girlfriend, his left-behind book collection. Beyond that it was eruptions about rude military victories of the 19th century. It's the volcano''s way. The volcano also seeps all over the highway.

I can't say for sure if the scissors broke.

My scissors broke. I like to think that Abelito's scissors, which I like to think were broken, broke my scissors.

To Cut A Pair of Scissors - short story


We all go to happy school
and keep clean clothes

our work keeps the dissonant demons
Devout Christian don't do good jazz

Devotional Buddhist don't fuck around
much with anything

there is no Round Midnight
no journey to the end

except to pause
and step back from dirty life
to perfect academy
sociology without blinking

to the spiral in or out
the collective minded withdraws

to keep the stains of wet life
inside human four
walls affordable

it's not my time to be the
reminding asshole
or to yell at
announcements and join

in the general noise where
we hope
no one gets hurt

and this needle point
ink card stitches
the spill

i have shaky faith
in silence time and other shines

struth truth = street
street = truth

no interchange
no crossing
no value in old kitchens
except to rest
look at frames, pots, you

the ending ideal of a
tablecloth in the washing basket.

Monday, January 18, 2016


So many points
on a tesselate graph
that each bud layers
rings of Saturn
in the phosphene of your
closed eyes
that you hail in revisitation
when you sleep
in all those forgotten dreams
that we say aren't dreams
because they simply weren't dreamt

and I sniff the hint of every shape
the waters of all your periods and eras
the regularity of mistakes
straight from our births that
should have been vetoed in hindsight

and on better days

our births that should have welcomed
the vespers and matins of King David
folkloric solipsism that anything worth
everything came into the world with us

We just do not sing to the dying like we do
to the birthday girls and boys.

The enormity of plasma between stories
and the high rotation motifs and leitcomplaints
we're assured there is skin covering the chest cavity
and bruises will spring up from years old injuries

as goatybois and goatygirls we feed on the fresh
verbiage. This is Pan, desirous lover of her lost to the underworld
hornbag and wracked. At times Pan wasn't to have been born as well.

And we will make this a rule.

Some of the phosphene planets of your lives and waters
will evaporate
and as rules go, at times weren't to have been born as well.
But I want to know the minutiae of all passed and supernova'd
bodies so as to allow for their coming.

! We know I want to know but this why I want to know. To collect
existence to allow for my coming.

I wipe the dirt off my shoes.
I clean the metal in kitchen...
Scrub my eyes to insight to my
amorphous phosphenea

to coin a name
to collect names
to collect
to collect coins by clayed rivers
to collect whorly shells by heads and shore
to collect my sleep in a sonic bed
the hoard the collective noun for a bundle of collective nouns

is not a hoard or bundle.
I collect data. incomplete here. the keystrokes and all.

So I can have your soul and in wracked Pan sores stretched on the graph
have you dissect mine, as verbiage.


Yellow flowers for fever and jaundice
for wounds in flush
white flowers for unambiguity – joy

as bouquet or herbal remedy
a simple combination

and on the day they last forever
just as thought-they-would

when some mental contrivance
searched for flowers to foist

as palliative encryption.
best to preserve the bunch

in formaldehyde and litter


the imperfect burnt letter

to a bushland for branding.
Unlikely that fire will arrive

anywhere near where you live.
So the glass jar with the preserved
enjambment of love and protection

will not crack under the heat of

We will know where to find the jar
of flowers

covered by stringy red bark and tree skin.


Long joy in
snowed streets
sheets of Romanced

binaural decades
and footlights
of operatic nights
ready for anaesthesis.

Thus my preference for Thursdays
and insistence on one thing
wherever it is

the rest of unfinished
orbits and courtroom
polishes assembling

leave paths and like
birds, swoop at times.
My arms move through each other

like a clock synched
to six eight signature.


Wooden scale
where to play
with fingers

and keyboard
of black pens

and white paper
Michael as brut
chop the belly

pile books and glasses
on tranquil parks in forests
filled with the flat

the movements of days
sculpture of hours
the previously placed

things unaccessible by a dig
the table as site
good dinners tweeted

and the dance of all my plates
go without document
and all moths

and such are unexpected
without notice
some secondary stains

on the old table
a table as factory,
office, lab, device

the work of eating
the turning of pages
with visitors

coffee, water
what food I make
the table heard you laugh

Start and End

We died in the same eras
"there, there you are submerged
soil suffused spinning with love
and semen, mist dispersed
dissipated by clarity. Dead journal
by diurnal journeys of illocal
circulations, the spheres, imperfect spheres."

pointed out perfectly from
the reincarnation of our perceptions

"it took two animals, telegraph wires,
a series of similar moments and that
made your left side. your cognition
is made up by part of our corpse
and words withdrawing, other abstractions,
the selfsame music of your clocks
and inflictive widdershins,
those who dragged your dead body
and my dead body
from the bottom of the sunny
gorge, dried blood, saliva."

Turning the pages
on illuminate frames
I sang funereal
to myself at her
past resting place,
to the black text.

Friday, December 25, 2015

Anthropos Por Medio Dia - Forearm

Palmaris Longus - the repetition of a spontaneous memory lasting around a minute per cycle, which is long for a spontaneous memory.

Flexor Carpi Radialis - conversations out of earshots on the diurnal side of the world

Lubrical - the dull thump of fireworks launching with no clear patch of sky viewable

Extensor Digitorum (inflamed) - the history of lost leaves of certain municipal parks

Monday, December 14, 2015


you were born
destitute sigh
forged battle treaties
of resignation

death upon death
you are the hope
of a bouquet

repeated annually
by our graves

a signature in the making
the world already had ended

that is the terrible that had
already happened

you were born after
the world ended
and your home

makes pretense
to the equilibrium
of two in four

we bestow ourselves
huddled houses

as we breathe near our 
liquid crystal display

clothed in the radium
of bare-Baird aurora

if you dream in black and white
you live in colour

for home monochrome of

is the librum of skin
that is the shining shin-sign
of life recaptured on waking 

the little poems i plead
as requiem for childless
seed, this poiseme

and the words return
in bird huddle

another twist of the two in four
makes the welcome
enter and exit by the side gate