Wednesday, 13 June 2018


foxfire the white in my beard


father’s conversation
beside the toilet a book
about birds


the little leaves
a little louder
first frost


long night the last of the summer beer


war memorial
I adjust my hair
for a selfie

Monday, 11 June 2018

saturated ornaments

a joke 
half remembered 
cold wind


bare branch
I dream of someone eating
my child


Between love and other over saturated ornaments. Holding a baby my arm grows into the green of a tulip stem. April arrives with no blossom. Weather fronts from Siberia. Sheets of snow. Ignorant to nebulas the bottle overflows its hard cheese. The label starts to peel on a can of tomatoes. She asks me how to adjust the contrast on her phone.

a memory wanders into
rotten timber


Cop car. Bowling back and forth between barriers of primary colours. Someone hit the clown. The clown dies. A soft indifferent rain falls. Cop car. A stained glass window forms on the clownʼs chest. The cop car moves through W & Tʼs.

morning light
the box of secrets she
forgot about


We must do right by the timber. Iʼm nervous, I mutter under my breath. Heart beat. Sweaty psalms. My antiperspirant, my antiperspirant, why have have you forsaken me? A sword gestates for 24 hours in anthropology. This gives the wilderness a soda can smile.

Words leak out of the fetusʼ heart. Twins, twin sisters that is, create liberty. No big deal. Some down time, a free wednesday afternoon thingymajig. Foreigners bring a butter hierarchy. Ho ho. Hee hee. Chuck chuck. In the other abdomen a snake. Abominable. Try the other door wonʼt you?

waning moon
a bay leaf pierces
the camembert

The fetus is examined. Long notes. Chuck chuck. No one ever sees the worship coming. I do my best to look busy, but not too busy. Taking a splinter out my hand I tilt my head a little to the left. We talk absently about the age of the universe.