days like these

from about eight ‘til six

I don’t talk to nobody

maybe send a text

message on the media

but words don’t leave

unless I kick something

stub that toe

say things unheard

& that’s it

this focuses my speech

so when I do

i utter from back of the box

about stuff thought on

& the links between

string of social meanings

are either loose

or long gone

& I hear your voices as loud

need to cover my ears

until we readjust to reality



after her

I never wanted another

I wrote that out so many times

dropping the overscored notebook in the ‘bin

discarded disfigured evidence

of the deranged crazed ex lover

that I was

& knew I had to pick up the lesson

or sure as hell life would send it again

& my friend who loved me told me:

find a boring person make the change

you go after the exciting girls & women

find one that doesn’t excite you that way

took me some time to understand

my antennae were tuned to fast times

thinking these were the only way to fun

I did find one who didn’t tickle me right away

let that develop between us soft in light

& learned slow perhaps the best way

she was not boring just would not hurt me

the old ways were not always the best ways

& my antennae needed a re-tune to work right

people who think they are clever but are really only being sly

we’ll call him Dave

& her Sue

because those are their names

Sue was my whore not that she did that for cash

just the booze, the thrills, the action

she was married lived part time with her husband & kids

& spent most nights party time part time with me

she loved my easy ways

the letting the whatever future may come life

that & my unfussy ways of drinking

there was always more booze more to be had

Dave was a guy I worked with who hated me

though he wasn’t smart enough to know I knew

he’d learned young to fake sincerity

& thought that gave him the edge on everybody else

Dave & Sue met at one of my parties

recognized each other for what they were

deciding to keep me in the dark was the best thing to do

Dave would call on a Wednesday night suggesting

we go for a drink

& I’d be: can’t man, I got a night shift to do

which he knew

maybe the weekend eh?

which he could never make

not understanding I have a third ear open

listening to the fake

& sure enough

the next morning grey eyed blurred with fatigue

I’d see her car by the kerb outside his place

& I’d breathe a sigh of relief

hoping that what they had would take

she would transfer whatever emotions she had for me

onto her new victim

they thought they were oh so clever

but really

were only good

at being sly

Being 14



Van Gogh


& ffs the impossibility of Pablo Picasso




Hunter S Thompson

& sex

all of everything

mind body spirit

Zen koans

music on the radio

albums in others’ homes

never enough to eat

taking all in with each breath

the world spread as smorgasbord

walking from place to place

feeling the pavement

as the images freewheeled

across the sky

& nobody understanding the why

the boy was how he was

direction of intent

a not very good

bass player

in need of a band

not the best advert

I’ve ever seen

followed by:

to become a hawkwind

black rebel motorcycle club

motorhead & lyrnryd

reggae dub


fusion mix

& though I think

it might be a while

until they get to where they want to be

I think I understand

the direction of intent

not so secret

there is inside most people

a place they touch only occasionally

the hurt space

feelings space

holding the difficult emotions

we have for those

who left us

either by design

or by death

those we care about still

& here we stop by only

when we feel we can

feel safe to do so

not that this space ceases to exist

if we don’t acknowledge

or leave it for some long time

it is still there waiting

making itself known in our lives

by the things we don’t talk about

conversations we don’t say

but if you look carefully

there deep in the eyes

you can see the hurt space

waiting patiently for its time