June 10, 2017

Guarding Lions

Kings that sit at the head of driveways.
Waiting for what?
Sniffing the nothing.
The world darkening and nearing sleep for us.
But for them, a day begins, and the night is their playground.

June 5, 2017

Dylan Record Skips a Heartbeat

He looks at me
With fiery eyes
Bob Dylan repeat
No hard tries
You'd let yourself be followed
Let me be glue
But I step away now
I have nothing to offer you.

Wings of Night

A cleft of sky through weighted clouds
Black wings circling
A winter's night pulls it collar close
Through slitted eyes, watches a day dying.

May 28, 2017


The domestic towers pile up higher and closer to the city, like tourists clustering at the luggage carousel. At the airport, you can't see your case and if everyone stepped back a little, everyone could see, everyone could benefit. But they edge forward, wanting, needing the best view. 

These buildings are immovable mini-mountains, growing taller with each undulation against the earth. And the people will move into them, "Oh look at my kitchen! See how very shiny and white everything is? I've made it, this is living," until the next rupture of soil under the pummeling rods of metal monsters indents a new cave for cars, and men in high-viz vests erect another massive Lego block on top of it.
There goes your idyllic view of the city, that you only glanced at over a stressed cigarette or to whimsically show off to visiting friends. 

Your property value is surely going to drop with that off-white lump in the way. 
Ugh, progress. Gentrification. It's disgusting. This used to be a nice area - when my building was the tallest, and I had the clearest view.

May 20, 2017


You're young
They say
You're young
You're young
You're young
You're young
They say
You're young
You're young
You're young
'Til they don't say it any more.

May 15, 2017

Last Days of Indian Summer

It was t-shirt weather a year ago.

The short sleeve of my clown shirt weakly encircled an arm that swung out declaratively, and my hand took his hand.
He went rigid, centimetres behind me, scarcely able to match my flight-day pace. My hair flowed long and wavy, white blonde onto yellow with soft swatches of pastels in a delightful mess of home colourist failures, and the mermaidesque cascade swung about me as I marched. I remember the feel of it grazing my bicep as I swung my head to look at him, and there I saw a smile of delight, of surprise, of pride. He liked being seen with me. He liked me showing the world I was his and he was mine.

Only, he wasn't. And I wasn't. Within an hour our palms would be parted and so would our mouths and arms and souls.
I was going and it was ending. It had to. It didn't work. We tried and we didn't try, but we'd done a shitload of failing.

There was no going forward. Forward would be backward.

But there was love. 
The words of 3, uttered, at last, the night before, when we were already over but still couldn't stay apart.

And now I was going, as if just headed away for the weekend. No-one watching us would know - the sight of this panicking, smiling, rushing girl, fingers entwined with the guy in the flanno and work boots moving like the tail of a star, in admiration, in a last wisp of real happiness.

It's not t-shirt weather this year.

The Glass Is Half Bubbles

The sparkling water in plastic cups
The alcohol in glass.
They really do trust writers not to be rowdy - but we are a breed to turn our violence inwards, I guess.