It was a fat-tyred 4WD utility hard back, The sort of ute you’d expect a contractor To drive, except it was plastered with tacky Stickers, and no genuine subby does that. It snailed down

I awoke with two poets in my bed, Books I chose from the library, possibly Intent on a swift read while schmoosing For poetic leads. My motives are appallingly Plain, a head bereft of

If you start out every day in the same old gloomy way It’s little wonder what other people think of you, but The ones who matter most are the ones who hold you close

There’s an infinity of wisdom in your smile that would deny The winsome wit that lies at back of it; and then the droll and Cheeky svénska troll of you which peeps out from

You and me, The proof is there to see, Our lives are held within the spell of great simplicity, We’re free of all the shadows dwelling in the hall, Seen in awe like pretty

And you will claim we need more births to keep Our population mix in check while nature’s truths Suggest there are too many of us yet? And you will make the claim with good

It was a half-life that seemed like a genuine world Wielding hard symbolism over those who ruled it; we Lived vaguely in teen-easy ambivalence whilst our peers Took their chances in ordered existence, wearing

“Zipless sex” one cynic called This festival of fornication, This celebration of new-found sexual strength And urbane honesty, of sex for sex as sex alone And not a public test of latent puberty. These

Called The Hon ‘Lizard Gizzard’ with aptness bearing fruit From his septic yellow face to his pinstripe business suit, Famous for avowals starting, “Government Approved, ‘and in relation to’…” delivered deadpan monotone, eyes A

She wrapped a paper towel around his softened cock In what he thought was quaint affection, that was new, An after-thought perhaps, refined appreciation? She had never talked a lot in bed just let

This window is confidence, Documenting proceedings, Capturing moments, Cleansing views Challenging sentiment. This window is nourishment Filling the eyes With strong drink, And acidly piercing Over-elaborate structures. This window is furniture Re-hung like a

Every time I laugh aloud, who springs to mind but Johnnie Howard? Cathartic laughter eases stress which Johnnie causes in excess, So when I hum acerbic lines of Randy Newman’s quirky song ‘don’t want

It is an abhorrent thing, this incarceration of your vulnerability, Profoundly cruel in the way you were beaten To your knees, blithely unaware it was a battle lost For your health and wellbeing. It

Have you switched to Beta yet? It’s an even bet that if you have You quite regret your impulse To accept the canny invitation. It’s okay, I hear you say, the crew’s A clever

Were meetings destined then this was one To take a leading place, the oracle decreed it fate In a matrix of moving matter, and the signs all clattered with Chance fêted as a sweet

If I don’t write something good tonight I will sleep Without the comforting Canopus of deep believers, If I sleep at all, and this light which ignites My enormous poetic conceit and guides my

The mystery of a smile that glows within your eyes And is framed in an innocent countenance Passes not unheeded. Those transient’s hallway smiles and greetings offered through your door Are slyly seeking kisses

And so I had a glaring revelation, I couldn’t find the poet in the man although I read his life composed by writers true disposed To tell it with veracity. They built a monument

Colours fade into nameless shades of grey And where the tonsure of bas-relief crudely Stands effete, semantic symbolism degrades Into meaninglessness. The artefacts of an old Existence deny you humanity but you don’t Recognise

To glibly say that Joe was sort of odd Quite missed the point. Peculiar in many Ways and kind of weird, I would have Been afraid of him were I a child (if I

It would have been love, I am sure of it, And I held her hand torn between concern and pride Whilst she cried and cried on her first day at school. We walked to

It is a pristine page, clean on the blue screen Where I compose, I don’t expect it to stay that way As words glow from blunt, abused fingers, as insistent Sounds in my head

It happened by Bretton Wood (although that Wasn’t it’s real name) and I recall a clear, grey dawn And the tall sky fallow with torpid clouds; We went on before to watch how they

I was schooled well before he died, able at least To feel what others felt when their fathers Were deceased. Able but not willing And not without despair to glimpse the man Who’d hide

Steve is gone, I hardly can believe The man wont cry again, I cannot credit that His energy wont bloom And burst the candid pane That kept us so aware of just How much

A crystalline awakening on the plateau, The crisp air as brittle as new celery Snaps with expectancy. The cold clings like a blanket Mantled across the rigid landscape, Muting stark shapes in antiseptic folds

I am having a haircut today, it is not A complex event requiring excellent Foresight, careful planning or indecent Logistical arrangement; not to my way Of thinking. It does, however, dictate Great diplomacy and

The manic fires flared again today, very much the same irrational urges Blazing from the open grate, urgent fervours that belittle and berate, Ardours that depict a gross mistake and derisively debate Hereditary intelligence.

Do you mind if I write a few lines for you tonight? I’m fuelled for sure, perhaps a bit ebullient, (now there’s a rhyme that will be hard to find A word to suit!)

Is there anything which isn’t made in China? The answer is… of course there is, the question Was rhetorical, a crude attempt to palliate China’s late renaissance; eighty years ago you’d say That nothing

It was my life in fast review, initially at double speed Until I learned which functions scrolled the images On screen. I could pause, freeze frame advance, Endlessly replay and alter sound although the

The biker was a menace on the farm, a madman bent On speed, intent on leaving all for dead (it was fortunate He never left the shed). This biker was a frogmouth owl, A

Is the current rate of global warming A serious and cogent warning? Do we need to think about the fact That higher tides will drown Pacific island states Within a year or two, or

Colours in lamplight are previews, Scarcely eschewed as wave-length turbulence Tuned to closeness and friendship. Colours in firelight are skin-warmed Glowings, harbouring contentment, Revealing intuitive insight. Colours in moonlight are barely shown Shy smiles

The critic gushed and said, “Just like Jack, So raw, I never thought to see another writer just Like Kerouac!” Kerouac, who the fuck is he? A writer? Christ, that’s a laugh, compare me

Nicky said I couldn’t write, she’s got a charming Sense of social etiquette – given she’s a bitch (the canine sort, can’t spell for shit or even write A word) but then she has

Access Road Fifteen they named it This anonymous road to the Waipakihi Where its brawling water becomes Tongariro. A moment’s journey across a horizon Anchored in haze-ridden Taupomoana Distanced, but jewelled in my thoughts.

This morning, coffee in hand, standing at the kitchen Window thinking of things that need to be done I contemplated the post with a lean at the front gate Which I should right one

What is left now that we’ve used the last excuse, What is left to justify excess. The rhetoric at best Was very thin when things began, but to suggest We must remain and play

The news is out, down Veracruz they found the evidence, Olmecs had the written word 400 years before Sumerians. A Chinese claim predates all that, but let it rest. Examine what it means to

Absorbed in familiar rhythms, Carillon of senses steeped In good vibrations, surrounded By musical beat Pulsing potently In avidly articulated veins, Moving heated blood Faultlessly, delivering its purity Into a reservoir of deep power,