On the Stupidity of Animals

When I block of the entrance
– – You moan and whine
– – and scratch at the wood panels
– – – – I let you in
– – – – You go straight back out again

I don’t want you here
– – You don’t understand, you
– – stand with your tail
– – flowing
– – – – I take you away
– – – – you come back

I chase you with a box
– – I’m only playing
– – – – You scream the world ending
– – – – scream of the finale

I am washing my hands
– – you’re in the water you’re
– – being drowned
– – – – I turn off the tap

I walk slowly to let you divert
– – you panic in a straight line
– – in the same direction, then
– – – – a car scrapes you concisely
– – – – along the tarmac

I get tired of it all and stare out of a window
– – you fly right into the window
– – and grease it up with your feather grease
– – – – alongside the grease from my forehead
– – – – on the inner panel

I sit and type
I try to relax
– – you see me stroking the computer
– – and get jealous

I’m an enigma to you
– – that doesn’t stop you crying and
– – vibrating all over me

I am running because you seem to enjoy it
– – you’re excited, you bite me
– – – – I stop running

I pick you up to take you
where you’ve been trying to get
for hours
– – You bite me and claws out
– – you run away
– – – – but not fast enough
– – – – to avoid getting a kick

Then I feel bad
but why should I?
– – you have no respect for me as a person
– – – – I hate you
– – – – I just wanted to be
– – – – your friend

Paris Old Mosque

Tired, we wander once more
botanical pathways
comment on crows, seeders

pens holding red pandas
lazed asleep on logshade
the flowers press forward

out the back archway, then
basically clueless, we
wander around grey streets

Til up jumps the old mosque
with its blinding sun skin
we pass to shade where birds

& humans eat & drink
mint tea, seeds & pastries
we sit & read, watching

this crowding. Tile-glazed square 
dappled, shimmering. The
afternoon flutters off.

Notes on a Meeting

or, ’10 Questions to ask a Flat Earther‘.


Oh my god I’m so
sorry why does the moon
have craters like
your brain I didn’t mean to –
why doesnt the air
all shoot off upwards out
of cracks in the glass

Why why would the pilot
spacemen scientist sailor
explorers lie?
Oh my god what’s through the glass
It’s Cthulu isn’t it –
Oh my god that’s probably – why
are there – I’m sorry
to rip our whole being
apart like this
no pictures of people
– – – leaning on it?
at the edge
of your brain?

What is under us
– miners are in on it too
and why does it keep
shooting out of volcanoes – oh my
god – so hot
you see they have an
answer to everything
you see… curvature ,

Just different kinds of
brains , there there
it’s okay, we can embrace
in the existential
space soup where do comets come from
– oh god I did it again so sorry
all the
thousands of the
neurons in your brain
sucked on and
fired by the space squid
to end, support all meanings

and built the glass dome then?
well I suppose that’s a stupid question
we don’t know that either but we –
you fell over, be careful
this gravity is
out to get you
, sorry ,density
But this density is driven
by what if not –

cavity in your
world-view great cavity
covered by a glass dome
we can’t quite reach it
to destroy it’s not really
about this earth
is it? its
something else

Maybe it’s not the kind of
thing that can be built
or knocked down and
I suppose its magic
that the stars
are the same
in australia
and south america
, seriously, what towering
immense magic could
do such a thing

I feel so stupid
you make me
feel so stupid
how strange

One Throwaway Poem

T    h    is              p    o    e    m

I     s                                        in

A                                     square.

B      e      c      a      u      s      e

I                                          want

Y  o  u     t  o    r  e  a  d          it

Did                                      you?


I don’t know if anyone is out there listening
You may think I haven’t been posting as often, or as well as I had been.
You’ve just been getting the odd piece that doesn’t fit.
I have been working on a book form of poems that I can sell here,
So you can, if you like, see my pomes in another way, surrounded by the Paraphernalia that I would rather have there.
But maybe the primary reason for this is, that if I can hold a pamphlet in my hands which I have made, it would help me to feel better about what I have been doing.
Writing poetry by yourself and rarely talking to anyone about it can be lonely, but the main problem is people mistake stillness and inwardness for lack of drive. Meanwhile, subtle transformations of great beauty are going off in my head. Art doesn’t have to be for others.
I have written more poems in the past five months than in the prior several years – it took finding the modern Anglophone poets of mid to late twentieth century to knock me from a particular groove I’d been riding around in. I realised that we can still (and always, in fact) do interesting things in short form poetry. I also realised that modernism is exciting and nowhere near as difficult as it has been made to seem. Both to write, and to read. [Or, maybe I reached a critical mass where it started to make the sense it has the potential to make].
So, my only audience, be on the lookout, if you like. It may take a year or more, but it should appear. If it doesn’t, I’ll just upload all of the poetry here.

4, 7×7, Drive Home in the Rain

Outside this plastic-smell car
the rain whirls like a muscle
set off wonderfully, fine
brighted by the too-sharp lamps
in windy spasms of curve
and softens my face, cooling

I feel life has been jammed
like a filament burning
too hot to shed much lighter
than a dark emphasising
fizz and sticky resistance –
the rain and cold air soften

The car steams up, it’s human
my friends are drunk, I listen
to their lubricate jaw joints
It is strange and wonderful
music to hear them talk, now
In the dark roadway, I hang

I hang as the world unfurls
its scoreboard display signposts
a smashed out car, black wreckage
My throat twitches with a cold
surge, we fly home fast as time
I exit and crush a snail
sigh, the paths are full of them.

Music credit to Ben Salisbury & Geoff Barrow for ‘Ava’

One View

Sex isn’t all that great
It’s just another thing you can do

With someone you love
Trust me there are better things to do

With someone you love
To talk all day

To sit and rest on each other’s stomachs in a field
To watch a great film

Don’t get me wrong, sex can be grand
In an upswell of fluidity

But mostly it is tiring and
Sucks your soul out through each other’s mouths

You lie
And asleep