I’d hoped for stars but after all that you denied
outright knowledge of their names.
I tested you, what’s this or that, pointing out bright
patterns in black sky, fingers glowing
moonish magic and pure expectation only to be
grounded like those garish toys in your garden
where the vegetables failed without explanation.

I know you lied because you said that you could not,
your fury at the garden was irrational, contrived.
Rejection of each star was worse.
You knew every one but refused to share
anything that might shine too close;
like the photo on your dresser,
just another nameless piece of spinal pain.

sweet nothings

On deck the man is cradling a large fish for the camera; its silver skin flows lightly over heavy hands. He talks about the fish, admires form and muscled ocean-art. The fish is calm, moves like it’s breathing. He extends one curving gill, careful with the structure raised now like a wing about to catch the wind. Arced like a wave about to fall. The fish is breathing, drowning gracefully.

There is no space for me in yours. Not really, not even in imagination’s optimistic scanning of the broken clutter. Headless gothic lamps support two dolls and pictures of your love, lost in suicide. Your morphine tablets lie, scattered seed at her goddess feet. Her dainty feet, bare and fading, behind dusty glass. She stands alone for the camera. Her gaze is always to the right of you, no matter where you stand. No matter where I stand. No contact with the past,  just the constant thought of it. You talk about her carefully. Admire her nature, note how her essence shone when you took away the colours that she loved to wear. She never needed them to be beautiful, you crow. I am flowing from your hands, trying to remember why I will not meet your eye, why I hold my breath when it seems that you might speak.

intimately unknown


The moon is hanging there with that look
like I should know – alone and wild –
she’s a blinding mass of ancient art, forgotten.

Her dark side’s vicious, grave with dream
debris and angry space.
Next door, savage voices power-up
fire shots at what their coupling means.

That’s my point       he shouts
what’s it to you            if I get smashed?
Beautiful and still     she’s a bell
in-toning          when struck hard enough.


Adam’s precious rib hangs there, a mystery
with that look – like I should know
but gravity’s a blinding mass of ancient art
and I’ve forgotten every star-story.

Savage voices next door power-up,
fire shots at what their coupling means.
That’s my point     he shouts,
I can be out less time and still get smashed.

There’s lightning on the moon, some say,
hiding fear in hollow laughter.
Under veils of dusty lore she’s a bell
in-toning when struck hard enough.

reach …


I am trying to climb, trying to heave soil,
hands – curled like cups –
ache and sting below birdsong, among roots.

Crows wait up-there, patient sentinels at ease
with accidental chaos;
the car is inside out, one wheel spinning air.

Sparrows calm down-here in the muddy ditch,
their flighty pitch a somewhere
I might reach, a chattering of  hedgerow

life that might mean nothing, tiny pointers
whirling giddy sound.


written by way of an image challenge from Magpie Tales


the last two lines aren’t right but i’ve lost the plot so they’ll have to wait for now *lol


Are there more of you and me, pissed-up
in a few dimensions, wondering if this
thunder strums each sky the same as now?
Whatever, I am not about to lighten up.

Later you will kill for dinner and I’ll watch,
awed that life can boil so fiercely –
pray those crayfish reappear
in a world that you can’t stake or drown.

Let’s forget about the ring you found for me
while you teased another girl
in the cemetery – she’d have liked to die
but you had no urge for idle merriment.

We won’t talk about that I don’t like it
moment – words set in
obsidian against silver  – turning.



My thanks and apologies to everyone who commented on the drivel that I posted late last night. I had to send it into trash. This is a re-write. Possibly just as bad but maybe not as embarrassingly so lol …

the moon’s not dead

shaman wolf by Susan Boulet

exile made ice-work of all caress

you couldn’t bear to be touched
so i kept the tide low-key,
waned almost out of reach, love
knew you would not drown
my intuition
that you were hollowed ground
scrying craters, dust and loss
for the times you killed

yourself and felt better for it

urban torque

next door’s noise is rolling in while they move out.

door-slamming conversation doesn’t slow the church bells striding from street’s end, blunt-axing through neurotic wailing car alarms.

decisive click-click-clicks of next door’s switches fire at will, kill all but this headache, wondering if it’s early for red wine or just too late to stop

the noise.

on the path, beside the furrow ploughed by motorbikes last night,
a random concrete slab is resting.

i count finite tap-tap-taps of rain.