rancid rantings/burning anger/stin… fear/hope—strobe—love/abhorrence—t… nihilism coffee/whiskey/cigarettes—no comfo… plans with no point/guns with no c…
When I make an inappropriate comm… she would raise her eyebrows, and… at me, as a silent chastisement. Donald J Trump, Scott Morrison a… meet in an obscure coffee shop in…
Pumping water. Motor sounds across the drying river. Rustic images of a cottage with no town water
Look at you now a desperado in a desperate world huddling under the blanket of delusion. The road you always thought would…
I have grieved the growing power, the vanishing grace, the stateless state, of the victims of bombs. I have mourned at the empty hole,
Living with constant fears is like red wine spilt on white ca… or trees uprooted from the bank of a river too often in flood. It’s looking backwards
I’m surrounded by the little gods: the gods of grey days who breathe… keep us at dew point, push us beyo… into a spritz or rain, and further… who sometimes leave the scene at t…
The last night train is a silver a… on the bridge, flickering in the l… of the city then disappearing into the suburbs, the countryside, rocking and rattling up the mounta…
We are running out of breath in th… to avoid our fate, avoid ourselves… make a new fate, make ourselves an… We are at the beachhead and the wa… are boiling in like playful, malic…
The poet unafraid is hardly a poet… but dull in understanding of the power and impotence in his… .? ’?
Long since, a matter of mere weeks… I had turned my back on the satties with pills or bush,
I saw that last picture of you, st… the infamous bunker. It was a blur… that seemed right for the moment,… it seemed now pointless and old, a… You looked over the wreckage broug…
I don’t believe in a god represent… by evil priests and false prophets… and spoken of by politicians for p… a puppet for the maniacs of greed. I don’t believe in a god who has
Somehow everything has been shorn: the sky of its clouds, the morning… the day of its welcome, the traffi… Every sacred thing has been shorn… religion of its mystery—the Body o…
The flower in the whisky bottle beckons me, kindly as a guru, a Buddha, a pink fleshed lover. I open the door behind the whisky…