Friday, December 31, 2010

Charity begins

Then there were the ones
Who staged everything
For want of humour

They're not done

Circumlocution
I'll explain what it means when
You pop round the back

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Just let it. Just.

When it moves forward
Don't tell it anything lest
It move back again

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Multo mutlo multo

Serendipity
In ripe fields of rhyme before
Tell-e-vision

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Bully beef

Ruminations
Ease the uneasy message
Your memory licked

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Old Man Sym

Fortune's grave
Raided by the grieving crowd
For purity's sake

Nothing escapes the T Man

Suspense building
Not made easy with taxed
Unexpectedness

Monday, May 31, 2010

God knows

Keeper of the frog
Turns brown with croaking "what what"
For all he is worth

Fermented rhymenorreason

Four thousand missed calls
Gathered at a smart hotel
Daring another

Foreground noise

Tired sentiment
Crawling under my pillow
Escaping the night

Sunday, May 30, 2010

Market day

Rain smeared stop sign
Surrenders this one morning
To five four three two

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Simian song

Solitarily
Inconsequentially
Mano a mano

Geelong, I suppose

Forgotton tu-tu
Last spotted colourlessly
In an open drain

Sunday, May 09, 2010

This man... (not me me)

...is not afraid of midlife. His crisis began at 21 anyway. And his life since these difficult years? It has been a slow, inexorable transfiguration. He has become a cliche, a self-parody, a man without spiritual bearings other than those that glance at him, and then ignore him, in the timber aisle at Bunnings.

A man whose infinite ineffectualness and heavily impregnated inner
urban martyrdom make him a popular salve for middle class insecurity.

A man who would love to be addicted once more to cigarettes and dishonest hotel stories, so that his teeth might regain thier colour and his eyes their pathetic glaze.

A man who would crash his friend's motorbike and suffer Good 'Ol Boy exploitation without justice or sense. Who would fly to the tropical North to recite meaningless poetry to his father and his father's would-be.

Minestra di verdura

She said he walked like a drunk, his legs were plaited
And left

Alone with him, he spoke like a hammer, his hands were thumping
He sang like a pipe, his throat smoked
He laughed like minestra di verdura!
And then left

Saturday, May 01, 2010

At First Gloomily

Glutenous somnolence
Tendril drags falling away from night's spine
Neither now nor then
Our accumulated algal drifting
Toward the whir of day