Category: Poetry

I began writing poetry as a teenager and never stopped. I read poetry, my all-time favourites, are Marina Tsvetaeva from Russia and well, dozens of others.

Sleeping in a small hole

Sleeping
In a small hole
Where to sleepwalk?
Where to dream?

The touch of a wall
Make of
Flowing hands
That walk in chains
Your raisin mother
In an empty vineyard

A culture squeezed
An economy that lies

It’s everywhere
In the capitol plan
Like a crust of poverty
Around the monuments of humanity

There is an invitation

There is an invitation
From the sky
To throw out
The old year

It’s written in the sunlight
It sticks to you
With a gentle song

Even the sound of the road
Is destined to be a river

As you listen
You hear family voices
Like the slight cracking sound
Of a growing Magnolia tree

Human economy

Human economy
Human culture
It cannot last
Its fruit is made of stone

A flower of knives
A scent of blood
A painfully withered leaf
Crushed by grey death

Throw out your grappling hooks
Into the trees
Save yourself
Out of the circus

Or place yourself
Amongst the desert rocks
That once
Were fruit

The wind on your belly

The wind on your belly
The smell of life

I know that too
I know love

The buds on the Magnolia tree
I shiver with apprehension

A prayer leaves me
An invisible mist from the earth

You – speaking with your eyes
You feel love

You thought love grew straight
That it’s easy to avoid

Then it spirals out of control
A madness in the sun

The removal (a childhood memory)

Sitting in the back of the van
With the tumbling furniture
The blurred road in the early morn
Following the voices through the rapids of shapes
Of slamming doors and vanishing road

Where was I from?
The passing of memory
The traces of a long-lost street in obscurity

No existence there
No existence – dumped in the back of a van
Not worth the trouble of my birth
Not worth a thing

The watch tower said to God

The watch tower said to God
I want to walk away
I can hear the storms approaching
The fields already trembling
The earth already leaking
The river already armed
The warlord already riding
So tell me, what’s the good?

It’s for your own good
To be free of their blood
It’s for your own good to keep
A heart full of love

And right beneath
Where the watch tower stood
Man slaughtered man
For glory and trophy and bloody mud

The giants causeway

To walk on the giant’s causeway
Step by step
Is to get closer
To the perfect find

To walk
The giants causeway
Is to stand
On a million years
Of variety performances

To walk the giant’s causeway
Is to feel the hammers of the earth
Release flocks of doves the size of rocks

To walk the giant’s causeway
Even the knowledge of its existence
Expects you to be free

Memory would flower

Memory would flower
In the quartz garden
Surrounded by warm fox fur
In tune like a guitar string

The shit bears with their death hyenas
Storms of depression and jaws bloody
Envelope the female form with anger
And set the ammunition figs exploding

Memory winds around the headstock
Wisdom tunes it
It presses lightly down onto the fret board
And then even the dead start singing

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