Skip to content

band names for rent

January 20, 2021

Blue-footed Booby
Duty of Car
Elizabethan Ears
The Last Dodo
Loving in Fall
The Cold Fingers of Dawn
Breathing like Frogs
The Antigens
The Turbulent Priests
Phantom Toll Booth Tarkington

Apply Within


January 2, 2021

a Saturday that feels like a Sunday
with the hint of a lazy echo of
under a non-celebratory sky
of mottled paper

give thanks for trees
and for birds
for fine actors
and for the funny

slowly a new year has begun
but has barely yet opened its eyes

it was just lying there

December 24, 2020

there it was
just lying there
waiting to be seen
to what use it could be put

I tried it as a belt
when it was done as a belt
I tried it as a hat
when it was done as a hat
I played some music with it
when I was done playing music with it
I rode it to the river
and when I got to the river
I rowed it across the river

on the other side of the river
it was some cooling shade
under the hot sun
and then it was a cold beer
and then it was another

and as the afternoon started
to close its shutters
I rowed it back across the river
and I rode it home
and it found a place to rest
right down here at the end of the page
in a poem

omenic dreams

December 22, 2020

omenic dreams

the splitting of time
into a series of sequences
stretched across space
from the city to the seaside
through windows and
around logical obstacles

and fragments of memories
remind me how I am aging
while still remembering
the odd things that I am remembering
snippets of songs
offhand passing comments
collage of entanglements
banging around in my head
along with half-written melodies
and half-remembered dreams

omenic dreams?
that is still to be determined
but encircled with the swirling thoughts
of art and its importance
and how to be close
and to share

are they a return to
recurrences of the past
these few unconnected points
that have in common that
they’re happening in my head
next to each other  
in this particular week
that is masquerading as Christmas

visions of flight from
the city to the seaside
or the seaside to the city
landscape choices
I choose the city
but flying would be nice

I do not long for much these days
and maybe I’m nostalgic for longing
and maybe I’m just patient
and enjoying the waiting

at fifteen years of age
some sanctimonous lunk
on seeing me moving
stacks of plastic chairs
your reward will be in heaven

for so many years
I guess I believed that
until I realised he used too many words:
my reward is heaven

so once again

December 13, 2020

so once again
sitting back
creating memories

the response
that manifests

in a desire
to go but follow

so once again
the straw-into-gold of
strings and fingers

a few strands
that tell
just enough
to entice

so once again
but wiser
or so it is professed

the sound
that curls up
in the ear
to happily dose

so once again
maybe starting
to get it right

James Honeyman-Scott

December 9, 2020

last night my mind came to rest
on James Honeyman-Scott
and how he left too soon
for us to know whether
he could be as great as his name suggested

well, before we could be sure

one of those old photographs days

November 27, 2020

seems like it’s one of those
old photographs days
where a friendship may be celebrated
just by sharing an image
that reminds of the sharing of
time and space
and how far it has come
and how long it’s been going on


November 12, 2020

a series of interlocking
intertwining incidents
along an apparent
corridor of spacetime

a handful of jobs
and midnight words
and mind sweepings
and lit dawns

a set of dynamics
an approximation of stereotypes
a couple of bucks
and flights

thus engulfed
without script
the crossed line
further into ambiguity

on the day

November 8, 2020

on the big day
of The Election
waking up on Wednesday
the internet was out
maybe it was a sign
the world had ended! 
but no…  

and so the days dragged by

tonight I came home early
from my nightplace of work
and shortly found
OMG (as we say nowadays)
Harris is VP.  and the other thing
and the other other other thing will be gone

and ten minutes later
here in Phnom Penh  
the cleansing replenishing reviving rains

and the next fight begins


November 7, 2020


late on the familiar balcony
I spy a musician
– cannot see –
as he turns the corner
and plays his whistling riff
over the beat of his ponderous steps

a beautifulsad phrase
on an ancient whistle
I know as a recorder

and I rush downstairs
to honour
– with small money –
a working musician

and he stops
– is gracious –
then ambles forward
in stately blindness
at the furthest left of the street,
one motorcycle length from the curb

he is passed at pace
by sellers of village food
– creepycrawlies so challenging to the outsider –
and the more sophisticated street food
idles and sizzles by,
seafood and other exotica
feeding the workers of the night

the musician shuffles on
his tune blending with the
YouTube of the bars,
and it fades slowly as he proceeds
slowly east towards the river

the floating, sad, delicate melody
can still be heard
from the balcony
15 minutes later,
as he still shuffles on down the block

he takes his music with him
but leaves a little behind
as we all strive to do

are we heard 15 minutes later?