The Night Sky in the Day Time

Relief after the storm

when rain washes the sky clear

grit and grain

drained away.

Awake to a sense of purity:

tensions resolved, static removed,

humidity vanished.

Walk outside

Bewildered at the streaks,

paint trailing at the bottom of a dome

See as you have never seen,

Darkly, though no longer through a glass.

Who knew the stars

were eyes?

Clustered, staring, unblinking


Who knew the sky is a face?

The earth is a mouth,

full of teeth.

(with a nod to Laird Barron)


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.



Eyes are windows

the dead stare through

we keep them in our heads

nestled between thoughts and memories.

They always come back,

though never unchanged.

The dead stare and stare.

We fear what they have seen,

knowing we will see it too.

It freezes them,

hardens them, fossilises them.

Our eyes are windows,

the dead stare out.


than that they

stare in.

Eye is here.

I have something on a similar theme here that may be of interest.  I’d really appreciate it if you would have a look.

The Joe Chip portal is updated here.


Things I learned from watching the first episode of “The Walking Dead”

Men are mean

though they are not cruel

except for cruel men

who are mean and cruel.

Zombies are best avoided,

they have many bad habits.

Oh yes it is so very important to record every single thought that goes through one’s head.  I especially do not like frozen zombies, watching their jaws start to tremble with the tiniest movement beneath the ice, before they are barely thawed.  Now, what was the essential difference between mean and cruel again?  It wasn’t to do with money…I knew I should have written it down…

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).