poetry, Uncategorized

The Sisyphus pearl

Sisyphus polished rage pearled purple


iridescent layers of loss rough to the

touch. He did not heave

some slipping century smoothed,

huge knuckle crunching boulder,

but bent double around a


stone of perpetual despair, a

reminder of gone people, gone things.

And poets pocket the same stones,

picked up

after placid crowds or from river beds


gardens where they were kissed and


gravestones and deconstructed


Who of us who hold them now have


filled our pockets on walks by the


But, we carry them and carry on.

poetry, Uncategorized

Ode to an ash tray

Fellow vassel of need, honest companion,

We residue collectors, exiled together,

in this garden of earthly delights we incense air,

vassels of extinguished hope, heirs to the throne of desolation,

Vessel for the ash of my leisure

Little reminder of the end of pleasure

You hold my future,

Asher to ashes

It was fun while it lasted.

poetry, Uncategorized

What is a poem?

Words. Life distilled. The endless returns, returned to one last time. The furry creature in a dark room trapped. It is a hunt. It is the aah yes in the surest, quietest place of self, located somewhere between the toe and the brain, that the condition of life is now forever changed and then the compulsion to set out the truth of that in words. To say for oneself something true for the first time. To locate an original idea and attach to it words. Words. To write for oneself. To write oneself into the event of life. Because in the beginning were words and I am not yet ended. It is learning to look. To trace in the creased linen of the bed sheet the valleys and hills of one’s being. It is a reason to find reason to continue, if only to watch dead leaves and breathe softer in the trudge.

It is archival for the soul. The soul’s bridge home from the toothless, friendless age. It is a note to self (a parenthesis in everydayness in which i say what i did not know i knew). It is the breathe of the soul spoken. The unutterable uttered. It is the deep yes, the womb where words first find form. It is the why of our woes and bliss. It is the eternal isness of a thing stepping into the light. A closing of the eyes to see.


Officio Rex


They navigate us,
Boats at sea
from windowless offices:
•river views with underground parking.
•3rd storey (higher purpose).
•air conditioned at 21°C (stable).

Creating circulars to circumnavigate the bold.
Contextualizing the world (one circular at a time).
Reviewing them that create it.
Coordinating the rules that govern them.
Grading and paying them.
Your opinion is
important to them.

poetry, Uncategorized

Birthing a shadow

I’m birthing a shadow; pushing out a form from within, and

glad to have it out –

to end years of kicking and

pushing and peristalsis in my brain, my

birth canal.

But now, i am shaped around the form that is gone,

the thing got the best of me.

left me squatting over a puddle

where my soul once was.

What did you do there? God will ask me.

I shall say I leaked.