the way I think (about the way I think)
Rush past the gauze bush blossomyellow on dark like explosive blasts frozenby the shutter, and heatfrom the windscreen, hand on …
Rush past the gauze bush blossomyellow on dark like explosive blasts frozenby the shutter, and heatfrom the windscreen, hand on …
Always small rooms and square, white places, limited possessions gatheredup, unpacked and packed again every few years. You betsomeone probably …
We were told in the garden, upsteep deep crooked steps – wellies dragged by clumsy feet – grass dancing, rainwater …
The tea leaf swirlsout the spout, birthedinto the mug – it’s amazingto see how it’s grown,I’m so proudI could cry, …
Drilling into the barnyard dark, probingout curves like a dentist diggingdown into decay, workingup the other side of the valley, …
The maw of the old mineshaft reminded meof the stove-in mouthof an end-of-the-line lush,left gaping there glistening by bored kids, …
I watch you working the body with a boxer’s predatory rhythm, ravaging that tin box like werewolf a fairytale maid, …
You cling to my finger like a newborn.The same weight that clogged your engines and draggedyou down to drown now …
By the seathe urge to screamdrains awaylike the tidefrom the rockpools. Of courseit will return againbut for now you can …
Machines liftyour hulking massweightless, O wingless angel slityou giveand give and give. You area huge and creakingoaken tankof red grape …
Yes, it is broken, but isn’t the world just a bric-a-brac of busted parts, layer on layer of confused movement, …
Let him eat, let each sixty cent slice of pizza be celebrated as if a treasure, and let him drink, …
I sat safe on shore with you, playing with the silt we watched families blow their last kisses aboard boats …
I watched the last of yesterday bleed off the river to the tones of trumpet and cymbal; the reeds were …
Gas stove tickssmell roasted coffeebury onion bulbsin garden soil holding fingerswearing jacketsthink of nothingeat roast potatoes black caramel cruston a …
the hammerthe horseshoe the iron the heat the barrel the water the rushing release the strain the brow the eyes …
I am as brittle as a pane of glassshuffling down the same streetcreaking like a scarecrow come aliveas I stoop …
The fire escapeis a raggedy spiral thing –a rotten tin box of ribs,have to climb it in a half crouch …
I heave up another lungful of gulped down stars and margarita moon (behind: a guitar plinks and ripples and twangs, …
At that moment in the long grass, or weeds, or whatever they were – but long, long, two feet at …
View this post on Instagram 'Your Relationship' poetry reading with video. Missing my typewriter so knocked up a few shots …
She took her things that lined the shelves, they left holes in the dust like buckshot in a stag’s flank. …
I know what you’re thinking. Poetry? What a goddamn snoozefest. You’re not wrong, but you’re in the right place . …