Wednesday, 31 October 2012

about sandy and the space between you and I

When we speak, we whisper in craacked hums
they bleed through our fingers in variations of
ones and zeros
and contradictions flow between them, edging out
the missed touch and memories of swollen eyes
that keep us together, close
close between the yellowing walls of my privileged entrapment
close between your painted yellow walls of forced independence
but we are close

she wailed to me, the other night.
As she tore through trampolines and phone wires
casting green branches to the ground for their arrogance
and still life
like a wolf she howled through the Caribbean
scattering the children of her tears with only a thought, an echo of her touch
and I heard her on my windows
calling me outside for another bummed cigarette
pieced together from fallen leaves and burned with fuel flown up
from the cholera'ed canals of forgotten countries

and we are close between the wind and rain
close between the boarders of mad kings swinging sticks like
broken bones,
guarded by whipped horses and blocked by a teeming pool of life
close between space

she was not angry, ever
just spreading her arms over us with fractal ease
following streamlines created by gaps in our logic
by one in the afternoon, she was just fingertips
tapping rapidly to get our attention, but too soft for me to notice

by three in the afternoon, she'd emptied great cities
and even I could not walk without exclaiming her progress

between you and her I sat
sending whispers of craaccckkkkked hummm
in ones and zeros, dodging the contradiction of
ones and zeros
there is only one
and zero is not

and between them is you and I, and we are close

Thursday, 8 March 2012

about the clouds and the moon

as the moon drifts through the sky
leaving trails of lunar reflection
in the hearts of clouds

I can see your eyes
blue and cracked white
focusing back at me

It is the most rough-cut of mirrors
and you, the brightest of suns

does it shine brighter when you can see it?
or do I just look harder when I think you're watching it as well

Thursday, 5 January 2012


There's a slice of it

sliding through my curtains

reminding me of your lunacy in the purest sense of

the word

I am

tired and d d d d a bunch of forced coughs

and think k k k king of you

as I draw out words to ignore the slowing rate of the passing of time

deep in the edges of my ash stained couch

drawing deep from the edges of my memory for words that I

can't seem to find

and the slice of it is

not quite fully formed

and the ants in my eyes/

not quite fully focused

on the task of falling asleep

it's 3:23 in the morning and

my academic sleeping patterns are playing tricks on my mind

and d d d a bunch of forced blinking

is mak k k k king my eyes hurt

and, well

I should sleep

but my fingers cannot stand keys as a replacement for your spine

so I'll tap poetry into plastic

until I see you again

Thursday, 25 August 2011


I am going to focus on getting published so more people can read my poems. This means that I won't be posting everything I write on this blog. Wow, I really don't write very much.


Wednesday, 6 July 2011


I'm sitting in stamford hill, wedged between synagogues and kosher wine

sipping from the cup of shared dissent, it is pained on the walls

in portraits of past madness, lines drawn with impulse, driven by intangible memories

repeated blue and orange essence, wired forms and abstract black and white obscenities

and is this obscene?

Stealing space from the void, reclaiming the un-used red and black walls,

tracing the textures of flowers that creep up the

un-used red and white walls

and I dare not move past my vantage point, up the spiral staircase

past the dogs and cats, and laundry and water bowls for the dogs and cats

and art, always art, spinning up and down in a whirlwind of expression

and dogs and cats, and there was only one cat but there were so many


and at the top, Andy Dreads might be clicking away at his computer,

or just laying calm on his high-legged bed

I can only see glimpses of it, projecting my mind step by step

towards open doors and familiar adjustments

drawing my fingers across dark brown wooden banisters

the voices that linger and waft out of the walls and door frames speak in many tongues

worldly accents crinkle and slip through high-ceilinged rooms

and I am among them, in this foreign land, hiding from the reality of rent and stable living

and I, who came out of the rain, soaked and tired, smelling of cigarettes and tension

was let through the threshold and given a bed

Saturday, 25 June 2011

About San Francisco

we are all little slips of it just
rough ends of unfinished sentences
rough beads of rolling beads of
bean fed little birds off set by
setting suns in the fog of their
repossessed nothingnesses
and expressions of poetic

this is not how it should start
in the park, overlooking the
steep edges of oakland
and I'm fucking up before I even start

I'm just overwhelmed by
the sun and the grass,
and the size of this page it
could go on for days
and it's clear now but
night time brings cold fog
and haze

If I was thinking right I'd
have beautiful thoughts
but I'm shrunk into a
place of unwanted smallness
of mind and of sight
if I could see further,
if I could think with a calm mind

What if we were all as free as she
without the ceremonial flowers of remembrance
pounding the earth beneath her with
cosmic energy, drawn down from the
the the open open the
back edge of the sharp hill she dances on
toes on green
heels in the air
body twisting to the will of the breeze and
lungs full of a wail of pleasure
will power
Dolores park is a spinning gypsy
hair cut and the smell of
ancient acceptance
and she
is falling off the edge
with the wind in her
hair, and she
is with the others just

green is green in instances of green when green is brown and can be glances of blue too and green can be black when up against brown leading to green which is green when green is just green which is blue jeans on green in sections of patches it seems to be green and the patterns of feet which after the green are the patterns of blue which can be red and then green as the eye passes over and repeats the green which instantly seems just as green, just as green.

I can imagine it, all full of hope and
the innocence of not knowing
and I guess that's what it is now
pastoral drumming and the freedom
of dance
breathing in the memory of 67
and probably 76 too
tanned bodies bobbing to
terrestrial beats while their
disregard for spiritual gravity
floats above them
balanced kicks laden with a
southern vibration that shakes
these northern hills of California

the exalted freedom of
expressed excess, coursing through
the blood that rushes
to my head and through my eyes
and my fingers
and there's a ringing
like sleigh bells that
reminds me of the portable
refrigerator reality of 2011

and it's really here
at the end of a long
tired nap
in the sun
under a palm tree in San Francisco

Number 4 oh 50 on the side edge
of the easy street
sipping deep from the air around
with a nicotine straw
and you can hear the music
even when his breathing stops
and the beat is drawn with
the steady, slow clicking of
empty keys on brass and
stainless soul
as his grin-less smile taps the
edges of reed,
and what he's learned from
the universe slips through
the cracks in his teeth

all the other dogs
are jealous of his quick,
long legs
especially the ones who are
too wound up to use their own

Thursday, 9 June 2011


It won't ever be enough to just see your thoughts spelled out
shaped into jagged sigils of assumed meaning, loaded with
from the stars and your finger tips

it won't ever be enough to hear your voice
cautious and quick, even sometimes a whisper
and oh when you whisper
and the pointed lines of your personal gasp
your lips

but when I can feel your skin between the lines
of my finger tips
and see the star dust left over
from our arrogance at skipping over fumbling
and fucking
when I can feel golden and safe
sheltered from the lack of importance
of our beeps and clicks
and find that deep, crackling hum

it will be enough

it will be enough

and I will carry it
wrapped in flowers and linen
in a glass bottle
with a rubber top

so when hear your voice
I can wring it's edges
and breath in our frayed,
fourth dimensional
and it will be enough

it will be enough

so when I see your thoughts spelled out
bent around gullys in the cosmic river of
the visions before me
I can rub my fingers across the letters,
coating them with ions from
the star stuff you're made of