SHOW ILLNESS

Sitting cross-legged in bed

waiting for the vomit to come.

I hope it is high-class vomit,

undisputed caliber of disease

that traders will offer me

a high penny for.

I will take that penny

and throw it away,

so that in starvation

and loneliness

further vomit will come.

Then I will return

to the traders,

and they will say,

‘but this is just like your last vomit,

we don’t want any of this’.

And having lost their interest,

I’ll turn away, penniless

frightened,

and then I will truly be sick.

DOGS

Mad dogs, the lot of them

with only one bone to slobber over:

the bone of extradition,

proud difference,

practised segregation.

Standing cocksure

outside their kennel clubs and kennel houses,

sniffing for some foreign blood;

their world is a butcher shop’s window

and you wonder how hungry

the dogs will be today.

Sweet flash of fang

and dropped snarls

bray in neighbouring airs,

a sniff of the fight;

then it’s worthless to throw

your money into the ring:

no one wins here,

no one breaks from the leash.

THE NIGHT BIRDS

The flutter of nearby cuckoos

merging into swarms,

streets echoing with their cackle:

coarse, rough banter,

a pumice stone

against sleeping skin

turned into sound;

noisy scribbles

against urban papyrus.

There’s the shriek of the female

battling it out

with the woof of the male;

mating calls, battle cries,

whooping and looping

past traffic lights at green

and poorly situated town apartments.

There is no sleep

in the hunting hours

of the night birds.

HOLIDAY

If a change is truly

as good as a rest

then I will holiday

amongst my rearranged room,

approach furniture at new angles

and stare at slightly different

shadows on the walls.

I’ll stay on this retreat for so long

that they will be no need to take snaps:

just let the perpendiculars

and the parallels

ingrain into my view.

There’s no post office on this island

so excuse the lack of postcards,

while all the phone lines wilted

in a recent storm.

Some days, I venture out

on a little boat

made of linen and springs,

and manage to pull the night with me

in the undertow,

the captain of my ship,

the manager of this hotel,

the only guest this season.

GOD IN UNLIKELY PLACES

I found God under my bed sheets,

trying to kick-start my day,

edging me to the exit side

where mornings officially begin.

I found God in my toaster,

asking me not to burn the bread,

demanding vigilance

when one is not yet

switched onto the day.

I found God behind my shower curtain,

wondering if today I will bother

to wash. Not washed clean of sin

under the waters of the Holy Spirit,

but just the regular washing of myself.

I felt His disapproval under my armpits.

I found God inside my television,

as I found porn to be boring

and switched over to the news instead.

I found God out in the street

telling me not to suspect the strangers

of hating me, where every laugh and sneer

was not directed against my presence.

I still hid.

He wasn’t in my mailbox,

as I ignored bills and other demanding

paper paraphernalia.

Perhaps he was, but I found it easy

to turn away and rake the covers

above my head, looking for sleep

and finding the Devil in my dreams.

LOVE’S EDUCATION

Love’s education is a paltry affair,

full of half-remembered paradigms,

useless ratios and uneven balance.

People will come to defy your lessons,

defrost your knowledge

and mix the fluids with their drink,

spiked with new measurements;

the approach of a stranger

demanding you revise the recipe.

Life demands the constant role

of student, in a world so ignorant,

you rarely get to play at teacher.

Others will pass on your ungraded heart,

not seeing the value of results,

only the stamp of failure

ingrained into your features.

Scrap your homework, tear up your notebooks,

the rules are asking to be rewritten.

A SHIFT OF SEASONS

Up before sunrise,

waiting for the dawn of you

to come grace my winterland;

a shift of seasons comes upon me.

The permanence of desire,

to awake beside a still-fighting flame

that knows no extinguishing air.

Come light your fire around me,

let us set up camp in each other

and settle down together

for the rest of our nights.

I have seen your star in my sky

and it has guided me home.

LAND

There’s a treasure map

drawn on your heart,

marked with my ‘x’.

I do not have to dig deep

to see the sparkle;

its wink of hello

can be spied from adrift.

It’s a young, vibrant beacon,

a smiling siren,

calling my ship into you.

I have taken my oars

and struck a cross on your shore,

content to call this home

and never sail again.

THE BEAUTY OF SILENCE

A blank face cannot compare

to the emptiness of silence:

the comfort of the void,

without knowing,

without possession,

without demand for a voice;

mutated lips

spin like hooked worms,

waiting to bait words.

No muted notes or muffled strum;

the drumbeat clock is gone

inside a partial deafness.

Lose all means of verbosity;

keep distance

away from communication:

a lover’s tongue,

so visual in its desire.

a physical whisper.

Cut out your vocabulary;

blame your intelligence

for not knowing know to connect.

The proud recumbent riches

of the silver snake

upon Eve’s ear;

shed that godhead skin

onto a shallow resting place

and enjoy the ________.

KIDS IN SHOP FRONTS

Kids outside shop fronts

at four thirty a.m.;

not for the commerce,

but conversation,

held up in the night along with the stars.

The ease of crouched whisperings,

oblivious to the stranger stealing pass,

a trepidatory tread

under orange scattergun clouds,

the comfort of the morning’s shimmering river

left miles behind.

No jobs await;

perhaps studies,

and finally, bed.

Sleep is not a conclusion,

merely the day put on hiatus.

 3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY