Poem: The Bellringers

The Peal of Bells, St. Paul's Cathedral, 1878.

The tintinnabula of faraway bells,

Bell-ringers swinging on ropes,

The suspended intestines of the universe –

Each bell a reminder of something not by

Lips, but brass, spoken


What do they say?

If you could take those resonant peals

And translate them into language,

What would they speak of?


Whispers never sang out so loudly,

Bursts of poetry, etched on sky,

A blink from the silhouette eyes

Of a peacock butterfly

But you cannot trust these fluttering tatterdemalions

Not to be slyly mystical – each time their Japanese

Door wings collide, a crash as loud as galactic timpani,

Causes all nearby auric membranes to explode

But deafness is not the start of silence,

But a gateway to a higher kind of music –

The kind of music that conjoins imagery

With sound in a startling panache of

Form-bearing lucidity, climbing out of

Of formless bath


So, ring on, bell ringers, ring on,

And once those brass hats

Fall on your heads,

Your gravestones will peal all the merrier






Sonnet: The Death Knell of Love


Dreams when you sleep – nightmares when you rise –

A solar shadow casting out a shadow of sun;

Clouds are in the earth – not in the skies –

And pain is wrapped up in a ribbon of fun

That unravels, unrolls, purls and flows out,

Like a river of ruin, chirping with disaster,

Peeling the lips off of every smiling mouth,

And hacking at the legs that would try to run faster,

To escape, to reach – to embrace happiness,

Before that unhappy candle is snuffed into dark,

And the melody you believed assured you tenderness,

Reaches your ears as a coarse, ugly bark;

The scream of the banshee – the duellist’s lost glove –

Hollowness without comfort – the death knell of love



Poem: The Waiting Room


Sitting in a waiting room, I see the piercing, pungent

Eye of God cut through the reality of the hospital’s

Environs to look penetratingly down upon me


“Give me hope, you blistering bastard of light!” I cry, I rail,

“O, if you must fill my heart with a poisonous pain that

Recycles itself in perpetuity, at least give me hope in an

Earth-bound after-life that comes after sadness – hope

That your light is not just an illusion, but a true realization

Of sweet happiness’s rebirth.


“Let not this happiness, so newly come, be so newly lost –

I know ‘the course of love seldom runs smooth,’ and

I’m inclined to doubt anything that does – but cannot I at

Least experience some stability in love? I do not expect

Anything to last forever; but after so long of living in pain

And unhappiness, cannot I at last sink fully into and be

Cleansed by my bath of love, before the plug is so hideously



“It is the nature of your love,” accused a floating nurse,

“To become all that you love – and so become a curse –

But in invading that space, you become an object of hate,

And scare away those you would most love.”


“Fine! Make of me a monster – a parasite!” I said

In defence. “But it is the nature of love to invade

And be invaded – it is a holocaust – a bloody fucking



“I am invaded by the love I feel for what I love;

Wish to invade the loved one with my love; and

Have them, in turn, invade me with their love.”


“Sounds like a sexual metaphor to me!”

The Coffee Machine incriminatingly hummed.


“This has nothing to do with sex,

As sex has nothing to do with the

Full penetration of love!”


“Speak for yourself – I’m just a coffee machine –

The closest I come to love is when the technician

Returns to re-stock my beans!”



Though slightly soothed, the portal to heaven

Still open before me, uncertainty yet was found

Pacing around me, foaming like a dog-foaming



“Will she? Won’t she?” I asked myself

And The Universe, watching a window-shade

Tremble flutteringly at the slow, pale anxiety

Of my flutter


Then I thought of those I had erstwhile loved,

And wished they would find the love elsewhere

Which to me they could not return


Then a pregnant nurse came in and talked of the

Spiritual investment that had become her charge;

And I thought that, if the child bore even a trace of

The happy purity that beatified her face, then I could

Stroke the black purr of my pain, knowing the world

Would soon be a better place.


This is what The Eye of God can show you

When you have nothing better to do

But wait



Poem: When


When the flowers close up within themselves,

And only inside one’s mind can one find any

Color – when the whole world hushes itself

Into a charnel ground, and only in the flickering

Tempests of your imagination can the thunder

Of life be savoured


When all has been reduced to rubble –

Every concert hall despoiled to silence;

When the only music left playing is a

Quiet nocturne by Chopin; the swan

Song of a piano, about to fall off the

Edge of the world


When all molluscs and crustaceans return

To their shells; and even hearts turn themselves

Inside out to try and find a warm place to burrow.


When the lungs of the world collapse,

And the seas lick their lips over the ruins

Of train tracks.


When that immutable ‘WHEN’ withdraws

Inside its own thunder, and things come

To pass exactly as they were hoped


When the last chord, of the last song,

Is played, but never quite dies away,

And the warm safety of resolution

Is held in eternal tension – a tension

That never lets up, perching on an

Impossible tomorrow, that, every

Minute, becomes more



When all of these things come to pass,

I will have lived through them more

Times than they ever flourished.

And the tension of bow string

Against violin, will never quite



Then, my tension will no longer be

The pain of waiting; my pain will

Have soldered itself into different

Forms; my waiting will have

Transformed into Waiting’s Long

Lost Brother – the one who returned

A week ago, and is back living with

His mother.




No – I will tell you about my kind of

Waiting – the suspense of a kiss a

Thousand years in the making – that

Senseless suspense that sits on the axis,

Unfinished – all those pale victories

You never know if you’ll quite accomplish.


But, it will be accomplished. Though I

Sit in this pool of erosion, and build

Up mansions from the bones of corral;

Though The Great Barrier Reef still

Gets caught in my teeth, and I can

No longer tell sky from sand – it

Will be accomplished


I will not let myself down.



Yet, there is still that suspense:

That fear of touching what has

Never been touched – of plucking

A string that has never been plucked;

Of hearing a chord, that, until you’ve

Heard it, you can’t be certain won’t

Have the power to destroy you.


But, when has the potential of destruction

Ever lured me from the danger of my dreams?

I am too in love with destruction; I have too

Much adoration of all that can assure me

That things will never be the same.


For that is my greatest fear:

The horror of the familiar.

So I look on the world with

A new mind each day,

Killing and reviving in




Poem: Erotic Parallels


I sit wearing three shawls

Nothing else

Triple body

Hiding a naked brave

I would like to dress like this

All the time

So free, flowing – unrestricted

The weight of the modern world

Is all too much

The loss of sensitivity

The severance of all the nerves

That connect us to nature

And one another

Can’t you smell the wetness of the forest

The moist dampness of vegetation

And feel its aliveness within you?

I thought I was moving on

But my heart moves in reverse

As you plague my senses

A recently deceased priestess

Did we sit separate from one another

In the Japanese court

And make love

Through coded eye contact

And flight-feather fans?

I feel like I could love you

With greater depth now

Now that I have stripped away

All the armour and delusions

That kept me from truly feeling

To feel your body as enough

Without ice-skating through dimensions

When all that I thirst for

Is enwrapped herein

To touch

Your belly

Your breasts

All the parts of you

That define you

As being other than me

And yet utterly of me too

In your absence

I feel I must make myself a woman

So I can be all the things to me

You no longer can

To see you in the vegetation

The entanglement of pubic hairs

The clitoral oscillations

Of ladybugs on leaf

Who feels these

Erotic parallels

Telling naked stories

In their very own skin?

But I am still a man

With my slender body

And warrior-thin legs

I cannot grow breasts

Or simultaneous clitoris

Become a self-fulfilling hermaphrodite

A closed-circuit

Unto itself


I must be

Forever open-ended

Untamed electricity

Concatenating in all directions

I will get in my canoe

And sail down this river

Of primeval saliva

The potential of love

With you in my mouth

Eating your absence




POEM: Future Pyre


Place the fool

Upon the pyre

Who is there to know?

Who is there to understand?

I watch the last glacier melt

And the final sunset set

I watch the dolphins fail to breath

And a Frenchman finish his final baguette

Home is so far away from here

A longing that can never be quenched

I search, I find, I lose, I cry

And in disappointment I am drenched



Poem: Tumbled Wounds


Come here, my love

Let me lick the wounds

With which I afflicted you

And you can take me off the spike

On which you had me impaled

Let wounds be wounds

And scars be scars

Let wounds be a paradise

And scars be the stars

On a mutilated tomorrow

We’ll ascend to the depths

With hand nailed to hand

We’ll tumble down the steps

POEM: Filthy Fantasies


Most men

Are assailed by fantasies

They dream

Of the ultimate

Disembodied woman

The right lips

To chew off their phallus

The right breasts

To be suffocated by

The right debasement of self

To fulfil their squalid imaginings

The most erotic thing

I ever imagine

Is a kiss or a hug

I dream of being supported

Of being loved no matter what

Of having someone I can talk to

About absolutely everything

A welcoming mirror

That only reflects and intensifies

All the contentment of my life

Such filthy, filthy fantasies

It’s no wonder people think I’m insane

Longing for an intimacy

That has no shape or form

But I have punctured my promises

Just like the rest

So what right do I have

To talk?

POEM: Broken Moon


What will I eat tomorrow?

Will it be the coconut I’ve drained of milk

But whose flesh I have yet to touch?

Will it be unripened plums?

An unaccompanied jar of tahini?

We could do it all –

Me and I –

Eating just one thing a day

Trimming down

Back to the alien

Back to the aborigine

I’ve done it all before, you know

So many lifetimes spent

Living alone in the mountains

But I’ve come back this time

To show you the Way

I’m sorry if I’m grouchy

This feverish dragon

Still explodes with thunder

You won’t catch me

Firing a blunderbuss

But if you look between

The gaps in my teeth

You might still the see the scraps

Of orbital flesh

Where I tore the moon


POEM: Shiva’s Fire – The Egg of Death


Throwing myself onto the ground

I allow Shiva’s feet

To smash me into the dirt

Grinding all of my skhandas

All of the interdependent aggregates of my self –

Into the filth of the earth

Momentarily overwrought

By the intense pain

Of disintegration

My isolated disconnectedness

Soon becomes unity

My bones and entrails

Becoming one with the soil

Every day

Is a new grave to be dug

A new self to be slaughtered

I want them all to die

To perish

To be obliterated

In the searing gaze

Of Shiva’s Fire

When father and daughter

Wife and brother

Are all united

As different aspects

Of the same transcendent

Uncategorizable relationship

Then I know

We won’t need to be apart

Any more

My dreams

Won’t be the only house

I can kiss you inside of

Daughter, daughter,

As you see me slaughtered

And trundled into the dirt

Can’t you see your true father emerging?

His buried corpse resurrected

Hatching anew

From the egg of death?

We can be together again at that time

But until then

It will be scrambled death for me