I feel my weight atop her body in the early hours of the morning
Out, across the room, the rise and fall of her breast in the light of a lamp
There are freckles on her knees
I count them
Lose track
Start again
When I look up at her face she has closed her eyes against the light
I watch her lashes whisper across her cheeks
Her eyes drift left and right beyond the veil
I wonder what she dreams of
I wonder if she knows I dream of her
How can she bear my weight, even in sleep
She shoulders my yoke and her own
and we share
a quiet soft thing
In the morning when I have woken and she sleeps softly on
I will make coffee and pour a glass of water
I will look out through the window at the roses in the garden
I will feel her weight atop me through the floorboards
I will feel her yoke and mine
I will kiss her awake and ask what she dreamt of
I will tell her I dreamt of her
When the cool night comes round again I will count her freckles once more
I will feel my weight atop her
I will breath her in
I will watch her shadow on the wall
We will share then too,
A quiet soft thing
And again and again we will feel and count and watch
Again and again until there is no more again to be had anywhere
And then, when the quiet soft thing has crisped up into nothing at all
I will feel my non-weight atop hers
And I too will close my eyes against the light
And we will sleep together, and dream of each other
Jan 14
Jan 14, 2026 at 5:11 PM UTC
I would rather be a pig than a fascist
Said the pig to the fascist in the movie house
I would rather play in the mud of my country stye than roll in the blood of my fellow men
But you have no fellow men
Said the fascist to the pig in the movie house
After all you insist on being a pig
Just as well
Said the pig in a movie house whisper
I never was fond of that race anyway
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
I believe sometimes that I was born for poetry
When my mind is riddled with memories I cannot hold on to longer than sand in the palm
I believe I am born for words on the tongue
Not good words necessarily
Not a great poet
But a poet in the way of words for every situation
Metaphors for a dream
Hate spoken for the hatred
Love told for the lover
Words for the sake of words
A poet by birthright
A pretentious child by luck or curse
A word to the wise
Do not think yourself a poet
Lest you forget the prose planned for a daydream or a crisis or a life
Do not think yourself a poet
For if one is always writing
The best words may be forgotten
I already have
I already have forgotten them
This poem fallen half from my fingers
Unfinished
On the tip of my tongue
Born a word-user
Born a poet
This all will do for now
The next poem comes
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 1:32 AM UTC
It is that same sun that lights your smile
Which, an hour later
Casts shadows on My Love
But, mere mortal, who am I
To choose the hour of the day
Pray tell oh Sun where dost thou go
When dipped beneath
The fiery rocks
That craggy crest
That brazen brow
Your light now gone
I can't recall
For night is all I find
But, mere mortal, who am I
To choose the hour of the day
Or bay the Sun
To stay away
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 2:10 PM UTC
When I was young
Before I felt foreign lips on mine
Cracked the spine of the good book
Saw myself in the mirror
I sat at the window and wished on stars
I wanted fairy wings
a big white horse
a new pair of shoes
Now I am older
Not old enough to whither in wet soil
Old enough to sign my name
To run from large men
To billow smoke
Older still every day
Until there is no older left to be
Until there are no stars left
And shoes don’t run
And horses are too high to reach
Jul 15, 2025
Jul 15, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
A man drops on the field
Falls like a rock to the dirt
Raises a shout from the enemy and a shout from his friends
Deadweight to the company
They will haul him back to camp
Bury him like a goat by the main road
The funeral will be quiet
Men gathered around a mound
They will smoke cigarettes and forget which way up they put his head
The man in the passing truck will tell the news they are praying to an anthill
Dear readers will scoff and throw their hands up and proclaim
We knew it all along! Lunatics the whole lot a’them!
The boys around the man-mound-anthill will not cry in public
Violence has toughened them into men
Violence has killed their friend
They will cry later
After dinner when the sun sets over the field and they think they won’t be seen
Is it man’s nature to turn boys into mounds
To hide tears from friends
To smoke cigarettes by the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
The boy under the anthill
Under the raging sun
Under the cruel eye of god
Man’s nature to wonder
Ashes to ashes
Dust to deadweight
Jun 8, 2025
Jun 8, 2025 at 11:32 AM UTC
We descend over the city long after nightfall
I look for her eyes in the lights below
I think perhaps I can spot them
if I look closely
I am faster through the airport than the old folks and the children
Watch for my bags with a heart beating through my chest
Smile at the dogs on duty
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
but flesh and blood and world in a pinpoint
She is just as I have left her
The only soul who has ever been beautiful under fluorescent white
The only soul who has ever drawn joy from me in the airport
And oh what joy
She is not a dream
She is mine
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 4:38 AM UTC
Do you still eat your toast like I do
Around the edges first, until there is only the soft bit in the middle
Do you scan the line for the club
Peer into shop windows, cafe windows, bedroom windows
When you’re falling asleep in the dark do you wonder if you’ll dream of me
Does Bukowski remind you of me
Does Rodriguez
Does your father
Do you still laugh like you did with me
Do you still eat eggs with mayonnaise
Wear stripes and bows and the red canvas trousers
Do you still eat your toast like I do
Around the edges first, until there is only the soft bit in the middle
Do you still eat your toast
The way you consumed me
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 4:29 AM UTC
A flower behind the eye
Roots in the skin
Seeking water not spoiled by sweat and tears
The touch of my lover
The softening of thorns for her handling
The shade of branches for her slumbering
I grow gentle in her arms
Under her gaze
I grow further from the ground
Bloom and flourish and shriek for her
A flower behind the eye
Torn from it roots
Settled in a quiet place
Brushed softly behind her ear
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 11:48 AM UTC
There is an old man’s walker beside the baby’s pram on the bus
There is something somewhere that is profound in that
I should think of time and cycles and the round about life
Of cradles and coffins
Of metal holding the body
There is a walker beside a pram on the bus
I think of baby shoes
Of my grandmothers slippers
Of my big black boots
Of the round about life
Mar 31, 2025
Mar 31, 2025 at 3:01 PM UTC