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As of October 2011, I’d posted over three hundred poems on this site, including many sonnets and search poems, as well as numerous poems that didn’t make it into chapbooks such as Abendland and Morgenland. I then ceased posting poems here, choosing instead to distribute them via my poem of the week newsletter. Then I stopped doing that too. Every now and then I post a poem here … but not as often as I’d like.
The school yard’s dense with bodies BUT I CAN’T HEAR A THING. No need to shout, a corona’s hanging around her head. The silence of summer. Here we go, across the iron bridge and onto the sports oval. Grass whistle. I’m still asleep. Memory tastes of Vita Brits. Something snaps in my ear as† the…
You know it’s just that every day this wave of International Roast it just hits me, in the common room, and I want to run. I see a pile of papers that may never get marked, handwritten notes, attendance rolls, and I just want to bolt. I navigate classrooms, listen to the bells but† it’s…
By American Creek there’s a fig tree with someone’s name written on its trunk. I hesitate to say mine. Okay, yes. In some fit of adolescent vanity I carved the initials RM there one day, after school. Never have gone back to look at it. What would be the point? Just a memory now, like…
i. By American Creek there’s a fig tree that’s been chopped off at the waist. Nothing but a brown stump remains. it’s the reason for my suburb’s name. & as for mine, you ask? Ralph will do. Mr Malvern to their friends at school. I watch them walk down O’Brien’s Rd. Reflected in the Fairlane’s…
She’s pouring in from the future. Floating on a river of bees. An egg in each hand and pearls in her teeth. Eyes of honey, radiating the hive. Her happiness a stripe that no one else can see. Polka dots of secret laughter. Favourable explosion weather. That’s all there is too it. Their fallout projections…
Last night’s Going Down Swinging launch, held at Yelza in Fitzroy, was great fun. So much fun in fact that I’m only now on the verge of consciousness, my detox plans having been shredded, thrown out and then reassembled by the mysterious power of Guru Josh, whose track “Infinity” is only slightly overshadowed by its…
A catalogue of tongues inside the Buddha’s room, that place it seemed impossible to leave, a space created by two dim machines under the tongue of a slippery moon. The tongue of a moon that licks the shore, that space where two melodies meet and form a zero, a name for the unwritten body floating…
Lying on a plane like lizards gasping for air. These new territories toxic as liquid gold or phantasms with no name. Down by a dusted ferry terminal for yesterday’s new deliveries.† File these hopes under miscellaneous cargo – or send them to me, cash on delivery. Lovers mingle with the lonely in a crowd. Bastilles…
(1) high season before anyone gets there. clean airports. season for new roads and sidewalks. haircuts to die for. fancy dress outfitters. convenience stores. spare parts for rocket ships. strong coffee. (2) slack season of our eventual reunion. in a sunny room where it’s always possible to forecast the weather. bicycle riding. small kittens and…
