Wednesday, October 16, 2013


he is dead, she is dead, they are gone

the time for eulogy and reflection has begun

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how they could satirise with such wit and precision that the subject of their barbs would have no choice but to concede and laugh along

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how with a sweeping stroke of the same pen they could capture a mountain range with such clarity that you could hear eagles cry soaring far above in the clouds

and i ask if you remember

if you remember how they could transcribe their feelings and senses to the page with such accuracy and attention to detail that you could feel their lover’s caress, smell their hair

and now they are gone

and i ask if you remember

if you remember where you were when you heard

if you remember what you were doing when you were told

if you remember the pain deep inside

the sudden emptiness within

as the realisation took hold

if you remember whose hand you held for comfort

as the tears began to fall

i ask if you remember

and i know that you do not

for this is the lament for the unknown artist

the lament for the ones for whom there are no accolades for the writers of their eulogies

for the ones for whom recognition was not central to the creative urge

for the ones whose creativity did not extend to the creation of a name for themselves

this is the lament for the ones who painted, and sculpted, and wrote, and drew, and sang, and played, and danced, and created beauty with their very lives because to do otherwise would be to deny the burning in the centre of their souls

this is the lament for the loss of those for whom the full realisation of what has passed will never be known

this is the selfish lament

the lament that in our ignorance of their existence we have been spared the pain of knowing what has gone from this world

the lament for that pain

the pain that would have marked just how enriched our lives could have been

Monday, February 20, 2012

to those i have not known

note: orig written 1998 - true story and unedited

I did once see a man standing in the street
An eccentric? A bum? Supposed derelict
Not breaking stride I passed him without giving him his worth
My ears they were not open to the words that issued forth

When second time I saw him, a discovery of kind
In a room full of wordsmiths this gentleman I spied
And my ears were finally open to everything I heard
A warrior was he, his weapons were his words
And now I hear I will not see this giant for a third

And only now I think of those I've passed without a thought
And think now of the beauty in this life I have not sought
So, as you go through life, do please stop and look around
Because beauty is within us, and in this world it does abound

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

squeaky wheels

I am surrounded by
Squeaky wheels
Getting greased with
My blood

But nobody notices my
Pock-marked skin
The barbs of these
Prickly bushes around me
Tear at my skin leave
Noxious residue behind to
Fester until
Coming to a head
Ichor release offends those
Who caused the

Yet those squeaky wheels
Cry out for my blood
Not recognising the
Two way street
That they travel upon

Friday, October 7, 2011


The pants of my
Are a
Too tight

In the morning
When I put it on
At work
I breathe out
Just a little
To button my pants

At my desk
Other people’s problems are
Or fixed

Demands are made
For errors to be fixed
By those who
Made them happen
Responsibilities of
Laid at

Next to my
Workspace a window
Holds a view of an
Outside world
Continuing without

When the time comes
And my computer is
Shut down
And my work day
To a close

I take off my
Suit put my
Home clothes on
And breathe in
Just a little

Thursday, June 2, 2011

An aroma, more than a flavour

My dad died in his kitchen
Collapsed in a heap in
The corner near the kettle
Vomit on the cupboards and floor

Outside a patch of driveway was
Dug up to prepare for
Inlay of nearby bricks
His mattock carelessly dropped
To one side

The paramedics and cops
Think he felt a twinge
A bit ill
While digging
Went inside to relax
Grab glass of water
Too late

But not me

On the table
Next to his armchair
When we cleaned up the next day
After the coroner took him away
Before our mum could see
We found a
Single chocolate biscuit
His evening with cuppa treat
He was making a cup of tea
Died doing something he loved

Friday, April 8, 2011

Meeting (2000)

transfixion not an option but a mandatory state of being as my eyes meet yours, as i look into them, fall into them, your soul's windows locking me into orbit around you

we talk, converse, learning of each other, every word issued from between your lips, those lips, a tiny hook, piercing me, drawing me towards you

uncontrollable muscular spasm deep within abdomen, shiver down spine, as body responds to delicate touch of fingertips on fingertips, idly playing together, a herald, a prelude to a further physical connection

lightning's fire of energy burst as lips first touch on lips, saliva sluicing pouring down parched throat at first taste of each other

and eventually, finally we are alone

and it is time

the world around us ceases to be, clothing discarded to reveal our true raiment, exposed to touch of hand and of gaze

kissing again, my fingers in your hair, arm around your body, the tension, anticipation, hunger in our bodies obvious as i hold you against me

our hands reaching touching tracing exploring stimulating every area of skin we can reach from this embrace

my mouth finds neck, and shoulders, and throat, as we continue to explore each other’s geography

in time hands gentle caress of your breast, response to touch digging into my palm and then my tongue as mouth follows hands lead, downwards

over ribs, across abdomen, tongue in navel, teeth on hips, fingers inside thigh, play with soft downy hair, feeling heat against hand from prominent pubic mound

font at which i now sup with fervour best described as religious, sweating, head swimming in your musk, momentary loss of coordination, shock waves of pleasure racking my frame as you respond in kind

and finally without cue, as if instinctively knowing it was time, we break from that embrace into another more complete, a merging of bodies, a physical penetrative joining so intense it is almost a metaphor for how much we are becoming a part of each other, you are as inside me as i am inside you

as we move together, rock together, entwined around each other, moving as one in ways so intense, so complete, so complex, as to rival the Gordian knot

until we surmount union's pinnacle at which we reach out, cry out, let go together and i orgasm with intensity greater than that of when first i held pubescent phallus in hand with curious intent, and slipped out of consciousness

and beyond, not withdrawing, not loosening in the slightest that climactic embrace, as one being we float nameless on oblivion's lukewarm sea

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

My Meeting with the Guru (1999)

At Uni as the 80’s drew to a close I met a man who
Taught me something I’ll never forget

I turned up at a party at a house near campus
Dropped my beers in the bath full of ice
Cracked one open
And went to mingle

Wandering through the familiar pungent smoke I felt slightly out of place

Having worked for a year before going to uni
I was a year or two older
And slightly more cynical
Than most of my peers

But I had a few drinks
Chatted for a while
Stopped for the occasional toke
And listened to whispers of a guest at this party

I heard tell of his genius
Of how enlightened he was
And decided to head for the room where this
Giant was holding court

As I wandered up the hall the smoke
And the alcohol
Got the better of me
I had flashbacks to Apocalypse Now
Felt like I was heading up river to see Kurtz
And I wondered what this meeting would become

I found the room
Joined the people on cushions
Passing joints, listening, asking questions
And talking to the man

He was a wonder to behold this

He looked as though someone in a lab
Had tried to cross a hippy
A surfer
And an American college professor
And had failed
Producing a look that those around me
Members of a generation with no solid identity of its own
Thought was pretty cool

But was basically a 30 year old art student in bad 70’s retro

And I with my budding biology degree
Learning how living things function and interact
Sat talking with this man of letters
This man who had spent 12 years at uni learning


We talked of philosophy
Of literature
Of psychology
We talked of many things as we
Sat in that haze of smoke and alcohol

And he showed me that he knew
A lot about
A lot of

And he blew the minds of those around him as they
On his every word

And I took something from that room that I still think about today

A decade later

As I wonder if somewhere on that campus there’s a
40 year old
Art student impressing
With the things he’s learnt

As I wonder if he remembers our meeting, the
Of uncertainty that crossed his face when I said
I know who you are

Or the smile of relief and satisfaction as he
My explanation that he was the shepherd
And these were his sheep

If he remembers me saying that he’d taught me
And that I must thank him
The glow of self-importance that
Came over him
As he inhaled my thanks

Or the self satisfied grin as he asked
What did I teach you?

But I doubt he remembers my answer

That he’d taught me never to confuse knowledge with intellect