Writing

When I smell the red red rose, do I,
Hear the rosy baby cry, do I?
Baby’s pricked by hatred of the lie
And, while pricks don’t make me want to die,
Do I?

Ancient dance of tears Modesty taken for weakness A fish’s twitch is a choreography Or a lowly reaction. Our vanity

When the payday dracula comes disguised as your son
The natural corporate offspring is a robot
Operated by a teenager, avoiding detention
With morons cheating quatrains by Captcha, bombing mosques by Kinect.

If Death directed a Major Motion Picture we’d get a musical:
Sound of Music, Carousel, and Rocky Horror, shot 4D,
Celestial, karmic, infernal, choreography and and all that jazz by Fosse;
Or just director’s comments on the DVD and deleted scenes, alternate endings –
Links to extinct contests or sites we can blog to oblivion.

Counting pickets, count the beat
Wear wrong footwear, use wrong feet
Folding answers till they’re neat
Keep Poseidon sweet.
Click the heel, no answer rush
Slow to anger, quick to blush
Smile to fill the question hush
Pattern turns to mush.

Stephen Covey
You impress me
Like Roland’s laundry:
Effectively
Disney.

Before the oboe the phrase of the crane,
Before the bird and the wood,
Squirting along in the Mesozoic sea
Colouring your tentacles with love –
Bumble me tumble me each one a meal
Deep in the belly of the moon:
I eat the children, and
I drink the sea, and
I eat the cauliflower sky.

Solstice 2012
Another beat closer to distant appreciation
Taken only by the odd prick of a camera
Phone. Growing deliberate so as not to break
The nice chat. The young curmudgeon cycles
Slower than the pure research product
Proven by a meeting where action points
The Way up a hill steeper than the doped
Competitors’. Race on.

for John and Henny

Today our gold is mixed and made
As we kneel and wash in this stream
That runs like breath across this glade
Into our common dream

And all our gifts are assembled here
On this day in the sight of the world
The ardour of our age grows clear
See the banners unfurled

Sing me for you and the wind blows true
Sing you for me and the wind blows free

The cycling craze is upon us.
Living in our skin of Lycra,
Therapy in repetition of our knees,
The road’s song and its scholar
Teach us a halt

Is not acceptable; for if you stop
You have only your legs,
No matter how shapely, to fight
Inertia.  The lead unto temptation is inevitable
Running lights, runaway, through
A mechanical economical gradient
Down to imaginary equilibrium.

Punctuated.

for Donald on his 60th
Every child is an oracle
Telling the present;
While you rub the sleep from your eyes
They park on your chest.

Great Big New Tax
Great Big New Tax
Great Big New Tax
Great big new dacks,
Cape, wig, shoes, slacks.
Eight Whig nude cracks.

When I think of poetry I reach for magpie song
Muddle monkeys waddle below

Spelling.  I’ve always regarded myself as a good speller.  Certainly adequate.  But converting The Weird Colonial Boy from an old

I’ve decided to post my earlier work under a Creative Commons license. First up, The Weird Colonial Boy. Will upload

Some might have heard that Jill Sparrow and I are writing a novel. (Don’t ask me what it’s called.) Friends

Well the novel’s finished. A draft, anyhow. It took almost exactly two years to write the draft and a couple