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September 5, 2017

life clutches at the throat
a little tighter, and we wish
for yesterdays, when we
know what happens next

these are the times that put
the husk in our voices
the grit in our grind
the bit in our teeth

watching the tumbrel pass
and we struggle to find
our voices, with or without husk
wishing for yesterdays,
when we know what happens next


dream cleaning

August 30, 2017

bring in your old tattered dream
and we’ll return it to you looking like new

we’ll wash and we’ll rub and we’ll scrub
we’ll magic away the stains and the grime
we’ll mend the rips and the tears
we’ll replace the missing buttons and bows
we’ll steam and we’ll press it
we’ll make alterations, nips and tucks
so it fits again
we’ll polish the brasswork and fittings
so it shines
we’ll suffuse it with scents and leave petals in the pockets
so it’s a joy to wear

bring in your old tattered dream
and we’ll return it to you looking like new
so that it’s a joy to wear

we never close


the mushroom chronicles

August 27, 2017

O my dear small friend,
whom I am coming to resemble
(although I am yet to grow a tail)
who weaves through my days,
our daily rhythms
and rituals

maker of next-room noises,
often prudent alarm clock,
mute until hungry,
slipping between
blackpanther and snowleopard
scaled down in size but neither
pride nor slink

doorkeeper keeping close watch
on my nocturnal staggering,
a boon companion of days
in wake and in rest

window gazer
chest sitter
together we stretch
together we curl
and in the afternoon you disappear

for whom I travel
at great personal cost
down supermarket aisles
in search of food
(and coffee, which you know
signifies impending break of fast)

kneading companion,
I’ll rhyme your tail
with my belly

sombrero fallout revisited

August 17, 2017

a thought
disguised as a cat
moves elegantly through
domestic obstacle course
the colour of light

leaps dramatically,
lands deftly,
curls up in an
appropriate shape
to worship rest

through a halfopen
comes the proud sound
of rain for the covered

a photographic haze
develops gradually,
humming and hanging in
the cloud-darkened room,
buffeted lightly by
swirling circles,
coming to rest
like a fatigued
on the table
strewn with
guitar detritus and misshapen
accidental flattened origami

the torn story
struggles to its feet,
grunts, and
apes the feline profile

the restaurant children

August 11, 2017

the guesthouse
where I eat
is split between by
the street,
and the food and drink
comes from the other side

regular irregularities

around me
the restaurant children
learn how to walk,
and when to
cross the road

the family staff
and teach
and practice
their Englishlanguage

genetic reverberances
make it hard to tell
who is related
to who
but certain guesses
can be made

irregular regularities

at certain points in the day
a sprawling gaggle of
school uniforms cluster
on the family vehicle,
all two wheels of it,
leaving or arriving

the youngest totter,
or are ferried around
on hips,
wails and
endless giggling

in its flukes and
its kicks and
naps and


August 5, 2017

full of life,
so I will
until I’m called
to where I was
before I was

now I know
I run on
and it is
what a difference
it makes
to be properly

when first
I broke into
this slow motion
is hard to tell
but break into it
I did

(not running
but running

and far now
have I run,
further than I
would have
I could,
yet never
have I been
so close
to home

full of life
so I will
until I’m called
to where I was
before I was

the infinite crease

August 1, 2017

the infinite crease
towards which I must fall,
which pits kingdom against kingdom,
which splits and envelops,
a certain tapestry of cheekbones,
guitar licks, disarmingly
insightful phrases, a sampling of
available spiritual intoxications,
and particularly innocuous moments of
clarity resolving at the tonic,
or, indeed, wandering off
into the uncharted territory of
where to incur silverandgold promises,
such that they are
such that they might be

ah, crumpled heap
gazing from forgotten island
towards distant shores
and wondering what languages
are being spoken
where we are not