In the last minutes of this side of the night
I’m tapping idly on uneven keys
you’re wound up too tight
but I know how this tension can sing.

I keep my head and heart hollow
for sake of the acoustics
as we compose another chapter
a callous chronicle of snapping strings.

Our harmonies clash, as always
rough-hewn melodies meandering
without resolution in sight
I don’t know how to end this thing.

Wrung Duck Pallet Truck

Flip the switch, unlock the reservoir
drip feed that main line ten lane highway to my heart
warm me with opiate optical dilation
prescribe me a speeding ticket in triplicate
carbon copies of foreign bodies replicating in a dish
make me jump like a salmon salad sandwich
tossed, kicked down the road by a tin can castle
peeking through my shutters
at the looming cheese-cutters
asleep in the saddle with crumpled wrapping
clogging carbs seem too matter less
than spinning stars and passing cars
and this confounding stop-motion mess.

Back out where the road lost itself in the dry grass hills
cutting across culverts dry and choked with gravel
every bend a spray of pebbles, hissing grasses lining
a narrow meandering back lane
a momentary flashing confusion, something white-

Pieces break into fragments of atoms of nothing
like a soul diffusing into coma
remote and removed completely
far from time and farther from myself.


Slug addicts are welcome
come nod off and on again in our sterile aisles
begging for stock checks on human heads and liquid sugar
you’re sweet enough already but why not stir the pot
just a dash of casual cash
carrots, sticks and a donkey costume
you’ve made an ass of yourself without our help
now collapse into a quivering quibbling heap
only to ignite like gelignite in a Minion-shaped jelly mould
dignity forgone for the sake of a dollar off.

Forged in finest plastic
or stitched together under sweating duress
we have full inventory of human misery
and seasonal clearance prices.

Your illness just needs a little fulfillment
foam packed mystery wrapped treasures
glittery sands to dazzle the eye and line the lung
breath deeply, pray meekly
at the altar offer up your hearts and your cards
indulge your burning urges
spend yourself better
and purchase a path to salvation.


The Narcist Anarchist & the Malarkey Arsonist

Where are you? Call out to me
if your eyes cannot perceive
or reach with your arms
if your voice is broken
but don’t hide from me you scoundrel
you hateful bastard, you haven’t the right
to scorch my earth and ignite my life
only to dissolve into mist
haunting my waking thoughts
with stories untold
revelation withheld
and those awful fishhook truths
wrapped tightly in a twelve bar blues.

Remorseless skulking eternally sulking
mercurial monstrosity in spectral swaddling
I feed the ravenous beast, or bargain
with the petulant child
climbing the tower of my tantrum
ascending to the pinnacle of rage
unstable with hate as morning breaks
and simmering
throughout the day.

I attend to you, tireless
my pitiful inner freak
I care for you
like a pointlessly fragile vase
that once overflowed
with words and volatile visions
and I keep you in trust
that a day will come
when life becomes you again.


Blue Grit

The old suburb has been buried
choking on dust, rock and rubble
tunnels gouge beneath deserted streets
stone-chewing merciless drills
pulse with subsonic vibration
and they strip the words from clay brick walls
high pressure hoses and chipping chisels
crumbling rotted mortar falling
pulling every stone apart
with fingernail and incisor
a century of ubiquity and urban mystery
under the tread of mechanical caterpillars
history is in the air.


The morning jumps, skips and kick starts
my panicked heart
with a low key moan restoring
resinous flow to numb extremities
and I struggle, heavy eggshell head
dropping in and out of reception
aware of my own painful deception,
morning aftertaste rasping like a lathe on lumber
breaths caught between
one another.


I have never felt worthy
to put your name to page
yet my hands are tied, tangled
caught up with strands of hair
that once collected like tumbleweed
and even now
it refuses to leave.

Half a lifetime ago, the light was fading
the ferry and the old beat-up wharf
lit up with orange and white
your lips tasted like chips and vinegar
and that hair, it knotted in my grasp
binding sugar sticking fingers
whispering long good-nights.

Collected by birds to make their nests
or swept into spiders’ webs
wrapped around filters in the washer
the dryer, the vacuum and dangling
in clusters down every drain
there’s something of yours in every room

I can feel my heart ossifying
with every obfuscation
foggy headed on a clear day
stoned before lunch drunk before dinner
with a brain like birthday cake batter
I shall never be worthy
to put your name to page.