Friday, January 30, 2009


Before birth, curled
in a pool of stars,
we recite the litany
of our histories of passage
and dream about light
from behind sealed eyes.

We can be reborn any day -
postage paid to paradise.
Welcome yourself with open arms,
to Saturday morning breakfast
in a sun strewn lounge.

Stop searching for an airlift out,
thinking with the dial-up access
of the unprepared and do-not-dare's.

Play like you're in a paint-ball game -
let the bruises fade and book a rematch.
There's no rehearsal for this sit-com series,
it's opening night on 'The Best Show Ever.'

Thursday, January 29, 2009

National Geographic

She carries a wire cage
balanced on her head.
Two birds perch inside
and view the day
in metal-framed segments.

Her outlook is intercepted
by a grid of pinholes
in fabric chosen by her father
and brothers.
The colour might become her -
but no one will know.

Does she like the view
split into grains passing
between the weave of her chadri?
Is she happy to be a silk-clad ghost
muffled in privacy, marked as devout?

Or is her world a dry pinhole theatre,
where she, like the desert
tenebrionid beetle,walks dowhill
to help moisture roll into her mouth.


Robed in cinnamon dust,
with cloud hair and realistic nipples,

she's a plastic-modelled centrefold
among her pleasure brethren.

Her topaz gaze eyes the reflection
of her life in a display case -

she can't help but notice the seams
where her arms join to her body.

Thursday, January 22, 2009


No matter how
the sunlight pours in,
still it scribes the shadows of bars
over the floor.

I hunt nightclubs,
libraries, supermarkets,
trashed apartments,
and littered streets,
for entities to sate my appetites,
assuage my hungers.

But bricks line the emptiness
I've walled myself into.
Though I seem for a while
to have filled up spaces -
feel the warmth of fullness
from this man or that,

eventually I find myself once more
soaking up a grid of darkness
that overlays the light.

I must find a way to fill
my hollows myself,
not seek kapok stuffing
from someone else.

Sunday, January 11, 2009


The distance between us grows.
Another anniversary has passed
and I should be comfortable
in my new bed now softenings
have developed under me.

But still I wake some mornings
and know that my fingers
dreamed of your skin again.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Storm Light

The painted-flower parasol
shading the lamp
glimmers light along her gown
like moon beams.

She fingers the softness
of splayed petals
mussed in the vase alongside,

a prettily restrained pose,
whilst the touch of his lips and hand
quicken lightning through her veins,

and a thunderstorm shivers
along her thighs.