poem pt 1


poem 2

Nostalgia Is A wanted poster






nothing behind eyes

this guy tonight
another chef
all slobber and one liners
nothing behind eyes
that pulled me no deeper
attention span of a potato
yakking on about the cool
rock n roll lifestyle
of being a chef
on TV
cult of personality
all tatts and foam
hay smoking meat
culinary wanking
he seemed fermented
limited use by date
lethal as salmonella


flickering lamp on the pass

adrenalin kicks through skins
with antisocial leanings,
the ones with high pain thresholds,
share the sharp implements,
make plans with psychopaths,
and hope for the ins and outs,
of an open mouth.
I break the aspic mold.
let me train you, well, it is my forte,
a softly softly approach and heavy
hand of salt,
and butter
and love…
…my custard never curdles.
let’s start lusts’ first lesson –
food, smells, fear,
and will react in its uncertainty.
glad I don’t bite?
well…we only just met,
you’re taken with my word fall?
s l u r p…
most days I just get blank looks,
might as well talk to the cat.
great, we share an empathy,
both glimpsed the crushing dull,
I can taste the bile still,
chased by the spreadsheets,
spider web of coloured silk,
they follow me all day,
point and recite
till my eyes glaze over,
and my tongue expands.
chef’s pockets full of words,
even maintenance requests
can’t escape my flowers,
flickering lamp on the pass.
reins firm release once they
bury you sad masochists,
bust a blister’s weep,
revealed a cower
cornered deer,
in the headlights,
wave a hand in front
of wide blank stares,
anybody in there?
catatonic defense,
mechanised a mind fried
as tickets cascade, just
sit them in the corner
and dance like fucking shiva
in a thunderstorm.


play my favourite song tonight

governments placate us
revolution needs us
finish the job
no stalemate
evil over good
indiscriminant and fierce
loss of faith
my time has passed
purge my fear
play my favourite song tonight
what assumptions
what’s about to happen
will I meet your expectations
or will I meet a fist
play my part
occupy space
movement and argument
fuel my motivation
give me the real thing
cultural repression
impossible dreaming
euphoric mutterings
tired less than men
theory and tactics
a dangerous mix.


all senses erased
she lay splayed,
arms branched,
his rough bark loud.
Green veins, pointed tips,
she blinked blind, leafed through
his fingers pressed.
No sound, but blood’s rush,
those black eyes eyed
moves unexpected.
Strangers hands
held her knees
parted velvet sighs.
then slid
down the iron & wood

under a wet oculus

we are a holding pen
of thoughts
of visions
dreams encased in skulls
knocking blood and bone
lifelessness supressed
spurred by freedom’s
ancient and bleached gods
meek in their stone
stare broken
under a wet oculus
burnt light rays
spectrum fleets
across the face
of happiness


the softest feather

inside beams
spiders fall from ceilings
a gate opens
we look through ivy
perfectly placed
pretty things
in drawers
hid behind

the world he inhabits
is the world
we all need to see
open mouthed
into a mirror
staring back at me

summer’s ghost
the softest feather
trapped in wet silk
bows in a blue dream

we cracked dragon eggs
laughed into the depths of our cups
shared a drink
from a busted hose
hot plastic burnt our lips
as we sipped
dancing horizontal
on thick cooch
bitten by owners of the grass

moonlit disturbia
bats umbrella
the figs and pines
your eyes reflect the craters
I swallow your name
one letter at a time

see the milky way
I am and I am in it
caught up
dwarfed by it all
magellenic dust
cloud me and you
eyes naked




  1. Shane Fisher

    The Drop of Blood of a Bard

    If at midnight, in a pure circle, with chickens blood spread around
    The Drop of Blood of a Bard is dropped
    A youth is brought and has it’s face touched
    And is spinned thirteen times

    They will become a poet.

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