Among the restful scrub
where instinct has now lead me
where all my life has guided me
to make my final bed
to seek my lasting rest
I know nothing of reflection
I know nothing of desire
only my tenebrous recollection
preserves me from despair.

Curling into this familiar earth
comforting myself in torpidity
a hush has fallen
the wild is calling
hunting grounds so far away
and a lifetime left long behind
weary from my relict existence
becoming myth in my own time
I surrender.

Dysfunctionally now extinct
an endling yet not unique
there is no solace in my solitude
there is only a dreadful peace
and as I commence
this caliginous descent
I wonder
am I to become your trophy
or am I sandwich meat?

Shonky Gronk

You can’t do it, can you?

I opened the box and the box was empty

Excuses excuses, you can’t do it.

I opened the box
I was surprised by the design inside
a brown paper palace
a cardboard castle
a four corner fortress
and so I folded.

Nice try but you must do better than that.

I opened the box
I found faces that were never worn
discarded without a second thought
faces brand new and still wrapped
faces silently pleading to wear me
expressions running down the street.

Yes, and what else?

I opened the box and the world was inverted.

Do me a favour.

I opened the box and the gift was eternity.

Last chance, shoot your shot or get lost.

I opened the box…


I opened the box and everything fled
I opened the box and nothing was said
I opened the box and I couldn’t believe
I opened the box and the box was me.

Salmon Salad

Oh no
not this song
not another one
longing for something long gone
not another one
searching in every broken bottle
seeking something remote
something unknowable
a small silence
in between our compliance
we are done
we are dusted
we are toast
and our calamity is sliced fine
so indolent in our condolences
we are intolerable
we are insoluble
we are a bitter bite to swallow.


The only thing between me and two thousand and three
is our flimsy paper memory
film negative relief and an inverse interpretation of colour
our tiny window
to crawl through
into the comfortable past old patterns familiar neural paths
like slipping into a deep warmed bath, or so I’m told
but what would I know?

The only thing between me and you is an undeveloped reel
you are my banana-skin pratfall you are my Achilles’ heel
and the only thing we held in common was our shared despair
we saw the world for what it was and there was nothing else.

You have been framed
four edges to your page
four corners to your cage
no point no purpose
no results to display.

The Sparkle Debacle

A penny for your thoughts
or a pound for your flesh
you’re wired up like an electric sponge
grey matter tumbling in a colour wash

the machine will chew you up
the machine will spit you out
the machine will turn you round
the machine will wear you down

Every night I’m strung along
lures attached to catchy songs
I take the cake and I swallow the bait
hooks concealed in my Mcvalue Meal

the machine will tally your score
the machine will divine your fall
the machine will hear your voice
the machine will see your faults

I’ve got a licence to swill
oh, they gave you one too?
can your poor head manage another shot?
live and let live whether you like it or not

the machine will clean you up
the machine will wring you out
the machine will churn you over
the machine will scare you sober.

The Forest in the Spare Room

She lead me by my hand
into the spare room
to share an intimate view
to watch the gathering dew
crystalline collections
confounded recollections
of a forest which flourished
under fluorescent tubes.

Haze hung lazy and thick
among the flowering boughs
she hushed her own words
as we coughed and laughed
exploring that shrouded grove
below a blinding artificial sun
inhaling the effervescence
of the forest’s very essence.

At last we tired and returned
awakened to our concrete world
surrounded by rude banality
submerged by stifling reality
with her smile and secret eyes
codes subtle and clandestine
words chosen or left unspoken
her forest beneath electric light.

The Wayfarer’s Prayer

Two hundred and fifty kilometres
time flies when you’re having none
burger grease on the steering wheel
skirting the edge of waking vacancy
stay in your lane
be on your way
the hypnosis of blank midnight roads
singing sweetly of peace and warmth
slow orange glow spreading over you
fog lights burning like lonely campfires
stay in your lane
be on your way
as navigation leans toward negation
dead ends hide around every bend
when the suddenly thundering semi
rattles you back to shaken vigilance
stay in your lane
be on your way
and bring yourself back home again.

Starfish Prime with a Slice of Lime

From nineteen-eighty-five to twenty-fucking-twenty
he drowned many sorrows painting a single memory
he focused double-vision to etch with earnest precision
he spurned the world only to preserve her existence
he listened to her voicemail and he couldn’t delete her
he read the old letters and said he never felt better
he heard a door slam down the hollow brick hall
he peeked through curtains and he lay on the floor
he rocked and he rolled and he wailed and he flailed
he ate his own word salad with bittersweet dressing
he held a staring contest with his own mirror image
and he won.

Thirty five still alive despite his lack of course or remorse
he downed every glass placed within reach and more
he regretted every decision made by internal schism
he pulled it together and he built an edifice to contrition
he piled it higher until his confusion covered the sun
he wrote about her until his hands were cramping numb
he ripped the page as he tried to convey a profound depth
he overplayed his hand and he understated his intent
he overstayed his welcome and he assimilated his regret
he listened for secret messages and he crafted his lament
he deciphered her words and he found a hidden string
he considered himself mundane and despised anything
he had created.

From nineteen-eighty-five to twenty-fucking-twenty
he knows almost nothing and yet he considers it plenty
he may do a dance for the rain and yet rave at the hail
he might ask to be raised only to flinch from the nails
he may search for miracles yet be met with damnation
he might aim for significance yet be content with salvation
he may resolve to survive, to rise, to praise, and to write
he might resign to expire, to sink, to curse, and to ignite
he may be nothing more and he may be something less
he might become someone somewhere and be no-one else
he may arrive before his time and leave before he is done
he might embark past his prime and amount to a zero-sum
or maybe
he will do none of the above.

November Golf

You are the product of your unique situation
that long succession of genetic regression
you are the product of a by-gone generation
who not only brought you to this place
but created everything
which now surrounds you
which now compounds you
which now compels you
which now becomes you
and yet of course they left you bereft of choice
replaced your voice with sore-throat white-noise
you are the product of nature and nurture
you are the product of naivety and neglect
you are the product
you are the product
you are the product
you are the factory, the package, the robot
you are the creature of die-hard habit
you are the continuation of a familiar pattern
you are inevitable
you are inescapable
but do you hear me?
do you read me?
do you see me?

There is nowhere else except yourself
and wherever you go
you will still be there.

You don’t hate the prayer, you hate the pain
your inveterate desire to desecrate
your momentum and your
passing momentary clarity
your inertia and your affected gravity
the path less traveled and the stories untold
now is not the time
to speculate on futures unsold
now is not the time
to cling onto your bundled regrets
now is not the time
to shake up your unmade mind
now is not the time
to turn over a new flat screen
now is not the time
to wonder who you could have been
you are inevitable
you are inescapable
but do you hear me?
do you read me?
do you see me?

There is nowhere else except yourself
and wherever you go
you will still be there.

Mubble Fubbles

after the words
at half-past dark
my second thoughts
later than at-last
further than so-far
my sorrowful wallow
cancelling tomorrow
my calendar of clarity
spare-change charity
my dubious timing
weakly unwinding
our corkscrew dive
blue tumbling skies
yet after all
it feels so small
nothing matters
morning staggers
dragging me along
with a familiar song
the only one I like
the only one I know

Clucky Bastard

I wake up in the dense darkness between early and late
to turn the lever to pull it together and count my chickens
weeks before you’re due to hatch.

I wake up in the blank blackness on the cusp of day
to observe the steady glow of your loving Iron Mother
resting my hand above her heat-lamp.

I wake up in the close coldness and the crisp quietude
to shine a light into all the corners of your little world
observing tiny miracles in holy solitude.

I wake up in the solid silence before another day
to listen for your calls through warm eggshell walls
singing reply in rough whispered song.

I wake up again
although I’ve hardly slept
your voices now too strong
your worlds now too small
I watch as you gradually emerge
while you chip away at your walls
I watch as you break on through
and you stumble onto this earth
then with trembling care
I gather you near
a handful of life so newly arrived
while somewhere a rooster crows.


Hidden within those crumpled sheets
scribbled over congealed frozen meals
concealed cleverly under by-gone revelry
nearer to nothing and entombed in memory
the finality!
the banality!
exit stage left to muted applause
unseen hands draw the curtain closed
familiar thoughts
dissonant chords
buried now in a brown cardboard box
close beside that patiently vacant plot
the futility!
the stupidity!
beneath us and forever between us
your final words I never heard
because I am a coward
and you knew me too well.


Regicide is the noblest of crimes
remove the head, the serpent dies
mix me a cocktail give me a light
igniting passion with Molotov fire
buy your ticket, now enjoy the ride
‘Long live the king!’ the viper writhes
protect your secrets, I’ll bury mine
our revolution begins tonight.

Shock Doctrine

Craving recognition
seeking confirmation
staring back at the eyes in the sky
a constellation of zooming lenses
an orbital array of baby monitors
old Brother’s unflagging vigil
nothing to hide?
nothing to fear!
now move along –
there’s nothing to see here.


Casino (The Hungry Mile)

“In the race of life, always back self interest. At least you know it’s trying.”
– Paul Keating

Your edifice glares into my kitchen
like a second sun setting in the East
your sparkling mountain of glass
your lofty peak of polished steel
your palace of ponderous vanity
and our collective loss of sanity
those orgulous proportions dominating the horizon
like a gleaming lance thrust into the heart of heaven
penetrating the clouds
flipping off the world
this crass corpulent cock of corruption
mirror bright and without self-reflection
this temple raised to launder your dollars
and empty the pockets of lucky sky-rollers
towering over the land and above the law
your cathedral of highest perfidy
your colossus of venal perversity
your altar of absolute depravity
your monument of base debauchery
this lofty trough for high-class swine
bugger the world and fuck the sky.


Inspired by a True Story

Supplements for Supper on the Last Day of Summer

Seven o’clock sharp as a razor
two capsules with tepid water
I’ve taken my tablets, dirty ochre
wake me up when it’s all over.

High noon climbs humid and dull
two more with my lunchtime swill
I’ve taken my tablets, sullen blue
what am I going to do with you?

Evening crawls in shadow’s wake
two more again to mask the pain
I’ve taken my tablets, restive red
steamed greens with sour bread.

My antihistamines are off the leash
plus melatonin for sweeter dreams
I’ve taken my tablets, lily white
no more medicine for tonight.

The Midnight Clowder

I talk to your cat
when you’re not home
I talk to your cat
when he’s out to roam
we talk about you
oh yes we do
we gossip and we dish
we bitch and we moan
“They never feed me!”
“I know, I know!”
“Nobody pats me!”
“I know, I know!”
I talk to your cat
we meet up at the pub
I talk to your cat
over our Sunday lunch
we discuss politics
we shoot the breeze
“But I can’t take you home,
I have allergies!”
I talk to your cat
and we make our plans
because people confound me
but your cat understands.


Just to be clear, this poem is just ‘for the lulz’ as the kids would say. I’m not going to abduct anyone’s cat. But I will talk with him or her when we run into each other on the street, and if that makes you ‘totes jelly’, I can’t help you.