If I was ten years younger

I might make a fool of myself

so I am glad that I am not.

I smile

and suck it in.

Why would I think

things would be any different

to how they were

ten years ago?

If I was ten years younger.

Except, like, for facebook and stuff.


I found a shoe

by the side of the road

There was no foot in it.

Not this time.


Tell me.

What I want to know,

is where

do the dead women go?

Dream about fish

I can dream about FISH

all I like,

I can dream about FISH

all I like,

The bastard’s can’t stop me now

I’m dreamin’ ’bout fish right now,

I can dream about FISH

all I like.

Here is a poem about fish for Good Friday.  Its not a very good poem, because really it is a song.  If I did podcasting, you would be able to hear the true beauty of it.  Lines 5 & 6 really have to be belted out.  I can imagine Shirley Bassey doing a great job of it.  She should have recorded it straight after ‘Gold Finger’.  Except of course it wasn’t written then.  Technicalities keep getting in the way of the development of my artistic career.  Babs would probably do a good job, but she’s a bit nasally for it.  “Dream” is stretched out, to represent the endless nightmare that being a fish is, having to continually move, never able to rest or sleep, until the relief of being eaten.

All the spider webs are glistening in the light of the full moon.  If I go outside, they’ll run all over me.  And they’re huge.

Industrial rocks

Industrial rocks

do not fall

on Albania

They need

an industrial land

in which to land.

Its hard to believe in love

when you’re in so much pain

Its hard to believe in art

When you can’t remember your name


Do you remember

when they started to fall?

Do you remember

the first time you were hit?

All this bleeding

is getting me down.

We’re all DEVO.

An important story about rocks may be found here, and I strongly encourage you to have a look at it please.  Thank you.  There, that’s manners.


Dark tastes

Can you articulate

a vocabulary of longing?

Imagine a culture

with words for all of the varieties

of the piquancy of despair.

Do the number of eskimo words

for snow,

exceed ours for the

bouquet of anxiety?

The aroma of fear?

The astringency of depression?

The tannin of mania?

Or should we look

to those

whose palate desires

such a pallette?

Those hidden connoisseurs.

Last Words

The old man,

he is dying

he is smiling

he knows he is dying

and he thinks

“I made it”.

The money didn’t run out

I didn’t go mad

kept it under control

kept going.

Food on the table

shoes on feet

wolf from the door.

Cut it close sometimes

but in the end

he made it.

He is smiling.

Everybody dies.

Not everybody makes it.

He is happy.

At last, he can let go.

All his very many one days at a time,

and now there are no more.


Corey the pondering clown had a competition for a poem with this title.  I wasn’t interested in the competition [there wasn’t a million dollar prize 🙂 ], but this idea and this image came to me in the early hours of the morning.  (It is very quiet here, so sometimes it is harder to sleep.  When you hear a noise, it is harder to convince yourself that it is not them coming to get you.  One day, it will be.)  The cliches are deliberate.  He might be happy, but in many ways it is very sad, that his happiness comes from scraping through, from making it.  For those of us who struggle though, you get through one day at a time, each little triumph, and then one day, there are no more days to get through.  Perhaps that is the final victory.  Then what comes after?  Don’t judge him too harshly if there are no references to loved ones here – whose feet did he keep shod, who did he protect from the wolf?  His love is expressed practically, and that is the greatest poem, and it is not one that I can write.

A bit of a contrast with “Young Love, with scar” below, which I like more, but if I only every wrote down the one I liked the best, there would only be one (actually, there would be none, because that is the fatal flaw of perfectionism).