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

Wednesday, May 25, 2016


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

"Pêcherie 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

Wednesday, October 28, 2015


somewhere in the ebb-flow of our own two gazes

years ago i gazed deeply for seconds into your eyes

you, i think, erupted in a storm of joy and I

left, shrouded in a robe of butterflies

Friday, September 18, 2015

All Hearts

All hearts – animal and human
synchronise twice a day –
this causes the globe to revolve
pumping curved longitude along

how we use tools and build
how the arc was traced out
It makes day turn to night

holds cruising ships afloat
heavier-than-air's aloft

it’s why solids molecularise
and keeps full shape to
the stratum of gap

it's how objects position themselves
with others
how we map line
but not how the living room's
table and chairs and wall hangings,
the vase, the rug, the drape
all behave to each other

this is where the big boomed pulsing
all thinly shifts apart.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Aqua Vitae

The blue glass bottles
flipped open

for cup, for lip,
for easy blue,
clinking just

                                                        The green lined grid/
                                                     graph paper /floor design/
                                                 storyboarded/ by instrument/makers

The cup holds between- tides
strung along by the nycthemeral.
Water drinks up moon. Water wakes

in the morning, to yawn
and lay stretched out on the lawn.

Entre Dos Aguas

Mer mori

"redour til treasury" raise on the head death
herding herald of soundhorn logicked wail
steps on these weaveyards, as beholden-trapeze,
growing wheat of indigestible soil, carcass and shit:
feed for a military of birds flocking

to a maison of witch-joy walls - a plaster of Paris
taken scorn route of combat
for the sake of union of ancienne regalities.

A love among limestone caves,
breath through eyes awash of salts
with short skins of nitrate.

Bring me prismatic                gasps,
One-Iris and a           blow of golden flowers
Wave,                                winding to sternum
An ill flotilla of b u t t e r f l i e s


(`````) Mer curialle (,,,,,)

"no telos but I still see straight ahead/straits out to the heads." "the ocean is invisible" "the water is the same warmth as my skin, I do not feel wet." “cold sharp grass on the Hebrides’ dunes”

“History dissolved in the stomachs of phi – fish
With rough matte river” “plate scales
Pointing at half past ten.

Laughing” “ teens on shore
With heads over bank
         darting        whiting.”

“Each fin flap” and     “tail sweep”
“Like clocks              stirring foam”
“Widdershins project

Brief lifetimes.”
“The young squint”
“cajoling to share

In round union”
“gnomic saga – giggle as whisper -
from birth till one

Till seven” “in the morning “field,
bright” “with sheaf to waking
sans” “dreaded scatter.

Smiling” “bouquet
held in hand.”
“the gift of awed witnessing.

The young point”

Did you see that?
That was when I first
learnt to read. Worduction.”

I see your story. There you are
Reading, sitting on a small wooden chair
fastened by painted black bolts. Your hair

Is black. Your uniform is grey. This is
a classroom. Your exercise book, covered
In gluey yellow cellophane, slippery plastic,

Has the longest story of the class. An undone epic.
 You had done enough unfinished.”

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Rabbit on the Promenade

in homage to js harry

Umwelt of responses
and in the substrates below 
a silt of muted action.
There are inaudible gasps
bouncing in echo chambers

from delicate atria
to delicate atria
in a soundproof dugout
which pre-empts any
sour acoustic.

This is my skittish
rabbit's heart
which hops softly
so my fellow crowd member
won't fear my paw pound

like I fear hammers creating
this fur face of crushed paper
setting these eyes straight
ahead, up and down,
and any periphery lopped

this torso the only aligned
part of raw automata
a straight ahead up and down
line. A body made for tunnels.
No slouches allowed.

My wet nose touches 
another wet nose
and white whiskers
twitch on pockmarked
cheeks. Red eyes as a

skittish rabbit. The home
is proof of damage. It's
quiet here. Outside the grass
blades swash my floppy ears.
It's a clash of waves

cotton battles till the 
punched hugs 
and small slide
of wet noses
there's much activity here

the grass blades rattle, 
the busy prowls and promenade predates
are like a pocket turned inside out
and lint falls like a feather 
(there was a bus ticket too.)

I ate at a restaurant with lah-di friends
nibbled on crispy wafers 
caramel flan for dessert.
I put my money away and counted my 
approving recollections of a skittish city outing.

Very AntiPoem

Esto no es una poema
Solamente lineas
Quebradas de prosa y
Verso por parafo

Autoparapsycholinguistics in the Morning

Long ungainly words might be used but not yet

So I'm ok in myself once 
I've achieved reasonableness

I start thinking about my behaviour
Around others

What would I prefer to be in that
Context? I don't want to be nice

Nice is vapid and a name of a
Biscuit but I'll grant that it's nice

To be nice. I don't want to be decent
Because it precludes indecency

Which when done well is fun.
I don't want to be appropriate.

That shit sounds like a
Haughty directive from

Private school teachers.
And politicians also use that word.

I mentioned reasonable but it
Seems always unexciting.

I don't want to be pleasant.
Don't get me wrong

I'm the first to love pleasure
Snout in trough

But pleasant sounds like
A cup of tea with your aunt

Which *is*pleasant but
But tannins and propriety

Is only a minutiae of social
Relations. And do you want

An all encompassing term?
I do. I want a really big virtue

Made of marble because
I like convenience

And I don't want a liturgy
Of acts that will be lauded

Really humbly or intensely
Examined by my aunt.

I toyed with proper
And it wells up in my

An insularity yet I
Like the curtness and courtesy.

I want that positive term because
Being a grump though honest

Also sux ass. I didn't say that
Or please forgive me

As this shit is a process.
I don't want an attribute

That is not comportment.
I can't think of one yet.

And I might have to ask you.
That's the social thing to do.

And don't second guess just yet
I don't want social because

Society can be unwell
As all the great souls whisper

Sometimes. And it's also a redundancy
To say that one is to be social

In society. It's not so much a mantra 
As an easy one word to work to

Lovingkindness is awesome but
People who do that

I think have the grandiosity of wannabe
Saints who keep telling you

How spiritual they are and how you too 
Can and must be like them.

It's getting a little complex now
I think nice will do for the moment

Unless there's a really great
Facilitator of autoparapsycholinguistics.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

A lo stilo Nerudesque

Drunken mermaid
woman of wave and spume
your wet hip
slung with kelp

your salt eyes
stung red with
monstrous nude want
gaze at my noise for face

your belly curved like a bow
arms sleeved with
primordial sands
torso with the consistency of blind clay

I cannot follow you
to dive
to clamp kisses
like barnacles

to your hot waters
rife with shoals
and deep echo
soundless silver parallel

your seas shell-flung
no hermit no portuguese man-o-war
no upturned spur of shipwreck
can unclasp your hand

from the bile of my loss
from my closed eyes
that only can take memory
into the peak of my pained sighs.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

The Machines In Our Ghosts

A cough
then retch and hack
chain axe ache

wind up
teleplasm small clockwork
rings jangle squeak

a ghost asks itself
"am I old?" the tick of the cogs
brings cyanide
                         to float

"where's my body?"
"what does it look like now?"
"clenched, blue,
                     in deep sea"

reflections in mirrors past
an empty eye squints minor sides
black radiant joy body and
                body pass parallel silver

the olden wooden floor is wet
its top tip bounce like swamped plush pile
foot dipped into slats pikes into the found
                           ations fusebox after the basement

Monday, August 17, 2015

ℂ∞! ℍ∅∃!

As before
I'm in the is-ness business
Is always gives
Even when it slurs
And slanders

Is is a land
That exists
Carved by
Moving gerrymanders
It, that is, is
Is an it
Isn't it?

Is is no object
But if is is
Is gives is
An object that gives
Itself and if then of its

Is is a thing

When not a thing is is
Then it's a be
Which is also an act
So no need for

Custard's Sinatra Theory
Be do merge
Bo De bides and bodes
Dibs on the dobe resting
On the meadow

Act is a thing is sings
I can grasp this thing
Is no object

Objection is ejection
Of rejection to put to
Be do all objects are things
But not all things are objects

All things or
Things are all
All is or
Is is all

If is got greedy
Or broke
And couldn't give

An ungiving is
Is not really is

There is no is
So there no
There gives, "there" is an is
We're left with no

That must have yes
Or a yesless no
All no

The isless all
The frames an is
"The" gives an is
Isless All
All isless

What gives? No it.
No All. No is. No no.
Onno Noon on on
Non-o Noo-N No-oN

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

A Poet Knows When

Right up against me

before sleep

after waking

I carry carcass

it taps me on the shoulder

I lug it from room to room

it tells me the Vedic line

the when I will join carcass earth

when the meteorite lands

on its feet

it drags me like

repulsive lovers can

declaring undying

alarm buzz

it thrusts its cunt at me

I kiss its bare bone breasts

it's ten it says

set the wake up

for then, the port

of entry in ten years

And when I arise

without bladder organs

with calcified face

torso tilted with rattle coin

I latch on to the next

keeler. The one for me

who wakes and sleeps

in dread in a canoe called bed.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015


κολυμβῶ - dive/swim/float

Head dunked in black water 

read with white phosphorous 

making fictions of the far rim

sentences lulled to lengths

of conceit skull-dragged by

an inebriated circus of fish.

Only bubbles ring out

noise, pinging like morse code

skimming through the undertow

of radiophonic whistles

sepia fins lapping like the end of pencils

drawing on a depth of plated paper

that reaches beds, the kelp

binding the spine of discarded

books submerged, content like sonar

this hair playing scales

mouth closed, cheeks bouyant

eyes dusted-saline

with a shake of irises

her amaneunis of arcus

and some lost shelf cloud 

marauding on phytomer 

a sea serpent stops for prey

a neck pulses

breath must be stole so jumps

this wet head sudden-bloomed out of a

cold channel like a time lapsed flower

Friday, August 7, 2015

Stereotypical Saccharines

Stereotypical Saccharines

Cliches have a kernel of truth to them. Then there's the remaining 99% of the corn.


my young green sugar cane
views the reeded world
reading outside my breadth, its shaky breeze
acre bends, dances and wilts. raw sugar of the angel

economically dependent doras and chocolate el dorados


the Borromean ga(s)ps in American movies
choke throated and flow my sugary tears
salt to knot-floss, doe-eyed foe-eyed devotees
hug salvation and return to their left beaver homes



the family circle trees of australiana genealogies
of kids in the kitchen, moving pictures
and shannon noll lowing what about me?
caster sugars aweigh! An anthem at the enemy.

sing! the world's gone home.
we whiney kids and kueches.
tears dried out, our iodine
we got our care years ago. It's all, alright now, really.


all lumpers thunder with ire and gaggle
at chart-topping fantasies of being hard done by
and the only carpet bombing I've
heard or seen on the girth of the skirting boards

were for fleas the dog brought in.

oh childhood! most of the stoush
was about cash. going without and under.
pocket money the never to be seen again
crystal palaces for: when I was a kid. love.


this all turns me back. paper boats in rainy gutters,
bat and ball, beaver cleaves, play nostos algos
dam busting and desert warfare
johnny came marching home

the wicked queen wants a mirror
to only say fair. alighting at kingsford-smith
she's asked by the wing what she thinks about this place.
what about you? she asks them all.




'My brow is damp
likes stars in April.
The rain falls
so lightly that
I am no longer flushed.
Winter's fire
flickers as it sweeps through the desert,
myself too tired
to follow.'
Ingeborg Bachmann

against the perfect
image of your global
artichoke head -
etienne de silhouette -
any chance of
backdrop possible -
for thine be the glory
arisen purpley thing -
given your dewdrop
brain bursts in
florets of incan-
descent singing &
borrowed etruscan
décolletage -
ravishing in a risque
barbecue sauce


Sunday, July 26, 2015

Estuarine (a cento)

The thinning out of conscious 
pilgrims passing by me
in the adjacent jungle, 
there are plentiful of pine trees

And thefts from satellites and rings 
spinning endlessly at night,
the folk who live in 
the waves call out to me

held out in promise 
to the Fish of Time.
Farewell, river 
that made life green

vacant now of flowers 
and grapes and crafts
the fall of dropping water 
wears away the stone.

Clouds will sail 
and winds will blow
Opening wide the distances
Without any in betweens.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Early Morning Downpour in Marrickville - redux

Bedrooms dull with cloud
and rumble dawns
making masked entrances.

Lightning stammers.
The usual loops miniscule
banished in brim of burst

to lay quiddities of gutter inlets scoring
the pavement cursive in downpours
on equalled sheets of rain refrain.

High above choirs the shell-propulsion 
of a jet, lungs like turbines giving chase
round flight paths and airways

their window view
regards me with journey,
their days withdraw over borders.

Then cold we lope from room to stairs
avoiding the wiles of winter coming
full of charge from the street.

Monday, July 20, 2015

3 x 1 silly sentence poems


My day is not complete unless someone on the interwebz thinks I'm a bastard.


Reports are just in that the Donald Trump gene has been identified.


"OK that's enough of that shit." - Albert Einstein

This is not to say

I've just snorted
a line of code
that was in
the ice deal

and which
you were probably
by breakfast

Fuck me
you are delicious
so sweet
and cold.

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Other Voices II

Words whisper from 
a stomach to 
night tha
t is on
ly nigh
t now

the Omphalos pages 
with bells as one w
ay trains do two 
rails, sleepers
It reach the 
last st

Ahead is a rollings
black. I need not
face anything but
view like one w
ay trains do t
wo rails, sle
epers. It r
each the
last st

All tracks lead
to the last st
op paging 
with bell
s as o

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

The Felicity-Complexity Nexus

Classically ueber-understated
how howl the owl, a
flesh pressed turns
round red. These are


No insipid incipit.
Pay less time
to words for other
writers. They're too busy
exactly like you are.

Even less words than
that for philosophers.

Remember, many of them
still want to deport us from the

republic to the cave they came out 
(now empty). At least on some level,
they critique each other
snapping up their bugs like
antiviral insect collectors.

The encrypted subtext of Forms
in a panegyric to the virtuosic
mad that sleep well and discuss
the datedness of the discus,
the floppy disc, the realm of Dis,
Di as a prefix, D as the letter to
be excised from the alphabet,

like Pluto occasionally is.
Relegated to yeah you guessed it
the cave they came out of
(now filling up (tickets selling fast (because
transactions are electronic (derrrr))))

Sunday, June 28, 2015


Inside round time
bunched points to
a little recall spoken

the egg turnaround
orbit wobble
from apsis to disappearance

once mentioned
a call from hollow
backyards tending

dear salutations.
A good morning
bad from streets

stranger smile
a nod and it's tops
at ten in the day.

Prior inclines
forgotten. Someone who I was
is someone else but no-one else

who's lived but me.
A one solid whole
dragged from ages

for physial bones
in prod
surveyed examined

its clang image gone
with tin edges
waiting til full fade.

Nothing then mentioned
just a body  there
waiting to be sheep-crooked

yanked to mutters -
escaped lands to yonders
jammed chockful with maybes

as possibilists on return
voyage folding back quays
to a hold.

Sunday, June 21, 2015


Red transit bypasses                                                                                          
marking unwound sutures
through sewn up seconds                                                                                       v liqua osu
diminishing minutes                                                                                              pradenie tabla
and tapered hours to                                                                                             venvere rasum
episodes of looping
nictem between cross product.

Brumaire of talc
tinting a grant
of yard airs -                                                                                                    na'a rerum entere
A hunter trap                                                                                                    claradara shenzhen
hooked with cove                                                                                                 neboro eanje
stones, a tamper
of brisking pollen

Tiling lalia of senate
sides in signal
of wink and slate                                                        schtanek zivora lembe                                   
torture of laws                                                            serre tiune ulgo
On said cement                                                          sen polsa sen
where documents are tabled
of soles sidled up

to leather creak. Undue
hustles swap seep
of bent mobs                                                               maiuwhuqy teffen ue                                                kissing on New Year's                                                 henge krim xerr                                                                             under zigzags of                                                          lopa lopum teccere
plumes, sparking pink traffic
speeding across sky

like the signature of
Guangzhou flowers.
A shaky palace                                                                                                       qaabo
of cups coated                                                                                                       eliphsi
with hopes of a catch                                                                                             ogualpa
of trawled stoop to
wowing lips reeled 

with preferred poison
and perfumes (the labour
Of fireworks, a champion of                                                                                    enxae poil yimt 
Success - surplus of                                                                                            ch'ch ut!m dzhov 
clocking offs). Chrysanthemimes                                                                             ltric lkkaswe t.
on a long faced Marceauing
to wind factories in Beijing.