solstice
The moon sags over the harbour accusingly,pregnant, threatening violence –another broken recordsweating winter solstice,tent on a palleton the steps of …
The moon sags over the harbour accusingly,pregnant, threatening violence –another broken recordsweating winter solstice,tent on a palleton the steps of …
you hear himfrom the bathroom windowhacking every three minutes or so. for usit has become white noisealmost – almosta comfort …
There’s the somewhat dilapidated apartments, greyspeckle aggregate, each with a car a quarter century old sat outside proud as a …
the showerhead is a magnet attachedto a swinging armof a crane abovea scrapheap suckingup car cubes, and it’s so sad …
a suitcase burston the bulkhead, its contents confetti –papers, papersgift receipts, train ticketsa sympathy card slicedaway and cuta child’s cheek,a …
Seagulls on a flat roofregal as robed Caesars – combine the wine& garlic with the egg yolks and anchovy,the hard …
My Amazon parcel lieson my doorstep like a fingerin the collar bone drones can’t knock the packet turns from pineto …
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 …
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, …
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, …
You cling to my finger like a newborn.The same weight that clogged your engines and draggedyou down to drown now …
Machines liftyour hulking massweightless, O wingless angel slityou giveand give and give. You area huge and creakingoaken tankof red grape …
I know what you’re thinking. Poetry? What a goddamn snoozefest. You’re not wrong, but you’re in the right place . …
I knew it was wrong but the allure in the starling sky that spring evening was overpowering – the same …
Great bronze bald head mawning like slow laze lion always tan from endless village loops delivering letters, bills and birthday …