confessions are self-serving

Tag: question


Elle est pour moi
comes over fast gypsy style steel guitar,
Leo whistles in the kitchen
light falls from the strange ceiling porthole
Elle est pour moi
he repeats himself
as he finds a spoon–
How long have I been here,
was I reading
or just trying to find
patterns in the ink,
what did I see in this jaundiced page,
was I somewhere else?

I get up
and reality rushes in
the form of diamonds and blood
behind my poor blind eyes,
sorry, I should have known,
I promise myself as
I turn the corner and
the back door’s open
the hot daylight’s inside
the insect screen shade rugs
the floor and
tight in my right hand
the frame of the door
holds up the walls.

Of men everywhere

I don’t know how you do it;
don’t get overwhelmed
by the smog of sudden silence
like fingers on your throat
after the engine is cut

In that pause
it’s like the world is falling
in on top of you
in that driveway of a rented house
in a leased car owned by the bank
that you liked last year
but like a little less this year

When the radio ceases its dirty talk
and the success of the day
has become a shadow
it takes such strength
to take your next breath

I truly admire you


I sit in the same room with rabbit hay strewn round – ale in hand. Shit – many years, n many beers too, much nonsense spouted n more to come. These hops give life to some quiet part of a dream inaccessible otherwise buried under dry (wine) humour and foul cynicism. A nudging, feeble recollection of forgotten quotings, grumbled – downcast already defeated eyes lunar slit – unearthed by proof and burning windpipes.

The confidence is gone hours hence, replaced by an unsettling feeling in the gut and a soul that is raw to the touch. Consider the subtleness of the red sea, as you tinker your tea. Morning. Window. Rain.

Consider a snail crushed, something as common as war.