On the shore he perches daily,
body wrecked and curled.
Through his hand
there streams some sand,
drawn down unto the world.

As twilight sinks, he gives a wistful
glance toward the sky,
as tales and tears
of eighty years
still now adorn his eye.

Soon he picks himself on up, and
shuffles west, forlorn,
and no one knows
quite where he goes -
he's always back by morn.

He's seen a lot and lived his years
defined by time's demands,
and with regret,
like sand, he's let
his life slip through his hands.

So on the shore he perches daily,
fingers fixed, unfurled,
and for his bruises,
slowly loses,
bit-by-bit, his world.

The duck is a curious creature
who has one astonishing feature;
she speeds up when excited,
crescendos, delighted,
and, if you're a grape, she might eatcha.

I knew a young lady of seventeen,
who harboured a great love for nepheline.
She'd use what she found
of these rocks from the ground
to fling through her ex-boyfriend's car windscreen.

Drag, drag, drag your boat,
gently through mud and **** that
before was a stream

Humpty Trumpty sat
in his gold penthouse chanting,
"We will build a wall!"

Old MacDonald had
a farm on cleared forest land,
E-I-E-I-O

Do you know the nut-/
gluten-/dairy-/egg-/sugar-
free muffin man? No?

She sells seashells by
the steadily rising and
trash-bestrewn seashore

If you're happy and
you know it, get a shrink; it's
2017.

seas of
entire
realities
take their
rhythm from you
and stop me
living
in
normality
eternally

*******. Quit melting
my mind away, and cleaving
myself from myself.

*******. I'm losing
track of what I used to be,
all because of you.

*******. You're killing
me slowly, not with toxins,
but with my own mind.

*******. You've got me
hooked, confused, and lost inside,
outside my control.

*******. *******, you
self-destructive, sadistic
******* of a drug.

She wanders by the twilit lake,
for thoughts of him kept her awake,
so now she feels her heart may break,
and walks on, cold and bitter.

He treated her with scant respect,
while his behaviour went unchecked
and after years of self-neglect
she doesn't know what hit her.

The whispered words behind the bend
allow her heart no chance to mend,
thus forcing her instead to tend
to purely stressful matters,

and all the while the breezes blow,
the things she didn't want to know
occur to her in steady flow
and leave her heart in tatters.

For what good comes neglecting chat
which lays her bare, or lies her flat,
if without help, her brain does that,
and worse, it complicates it?

But she never does speak thus,
it's to be felt, not to discuss,
and, wanting not to cause a fuss,
she never even states it.

He loved her so, she loved him deep.
She flushed so when he swore he’d stay,
and held her to his side in sleep,
since she gave her heart away.

She was his first everything;
he’d fill her heart up ev'ry day,
and press her to his heart and sing,
since she gave her heart away.

And when at last he did depart
she begged for him to not betray,
but nay, with him he took her heart,
since she’d given it away.

She was his first everything,
as all the famous poets say -
but he was her last anything,
since she gave her heart away.

someone
obviously
considered
it
a
laugh

(meanwhile, on
earth) ... what
do
i do
about it?

Sometimes, just walking a few yards makes me tired enough for a nap.

Sometimes, when I'm exercising, my ears start ringing.

Sometimes I look at birds but they fly away when I get too close.

Sometimes I lick my bowl after dessert.

Sometimes my toilet starts to smell.

Sometimes people step on my toes.

Sometimes I like to pretend the sofa is a playground.

Sometimes I feel like things are just out of my reach.

Sometimes I'm clumsy and knock things over, but I'm never in trouble for long.

Sometimes all I need are cuddles.

And if you're good, sometimes I'll ***** furballs for you, to show you my undying love.

Here stands a soul in search of lovers past;
   a man whose mind is greying with the sky.
His limited relations seldom last,
   and sadder still, he knows exactly why -
uncomplicated love is hard to find,
   when with misfortune, every glance betrays
behind his eyes this sombre, dark'ning mind -
   a mind that, with perspective, would amaze -
still, one that loses focus by degrees
   if e'er a caustic subject he espies...
it’s difficult to bury thoughts like these
   when trusting women peer into his eyes.
Perhaps he’ll figure out if he succeeds -
the complicated love’s the kind he needs.

I'm not a fan of who I have become;
   I know, it seems absurd, even to me.
Each day that breaks I feel a bit more numb.
   Since time itself provides no guarantee
and motivation's often hard to find,
   I do not like the man I have become.
Entire empires rise inside my mind
   although I often keep them under thumb
and then distract my brain through other means -
   to chemical addictions I succumb -
allowing me to flit between these scenes,
   disliking the mistake I have become.
They follow me around with haunting glares,
   a-rattling, like snares upon a drum,
and forcing me, reminding me, to pause
   and loathe the person that I have become.
It feels as though my conscience is at war...
but harsher struggles have been won before.

Whenever I begin to write a verse,
   I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
   and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
   the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
   the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
   among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
   and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.

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somebody
please
ask that
rowdy
rascal to shove
off so I can
write in peace

Spitter spatter
isn't that a pocketful of rain,
that you keep
in your pocket
like a locket on a chain
that's so heavy on your mind
it can not be left behind?
It doesn't help that all the snow-
flakes are falling on the lane.
With a screech
and a grind
what may go
through your mind
is the mist
that you kissed
as you followed him while blind,
and that same
spitter spatter
doesn't help
doesn't matter
any more
than the chatter
of the girl
he may find.
And while your
strength is waning in the cold,
it starts raining
just another indication
of the touch
of his hand,
and that simple situation
of your present incarnation
silky smooth
on the rope -
it could cause
the foundation
to collapse
like a tree
or through fing-
ers like sand.
Is it broken?
Did it flee?
Is it light enough to see
that the girl
that you were
isn't strong enough to be?
So your feet
hanging there
motionless
in the air
rent your pocketful of rain
and at last
set you free.

Stranger than a stranger man feels
when a straw man falls out of trust,
full of falsehoods, and full of lust.
When this disease finally heals
it forms a scar, ripped open, gnarled,
but soulless, ghastly in silence,
meted out in lieu of violence
on his heart, with lips ensnarled.
But can man soothe invisible,
ancient wounds that demand regard,
deeming his broken and marred
heart no longer divisible?
Is it all too much to ask why
a seemingly sensible and
charming man would hide his hand,
and with inaction dignify
actions of others for his goal?
Certainly it's there to wonder -
if his soul weren't torn asunder,
what on Earth can make a man whole?

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
I woke at four with sheets unkempt, and lay a while in the gloom
And, lying pond’ring what I'd dreamt, remained in limbo in my room

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
I rolled my neck, and as I lay, I heard a whipbird’s lashing call
As sundry different shades of day embossed the fissures in my wall

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
From out the window sun rays peek, to heat, with sweeping hand, the eaves
Up! ‘Round the radiant beams I sneak, to chase the cool my shadow leaves

The fan is on, the lights have gone, the schedules and the blinds are drawn
A breeze now beckons through the door, a-rustling my curtain, kind,
And fills the room with petrichor, ephemeral and unconfined

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I rub my eyes, and stretch, and yawn
The gentle breeze begins to sough as sultry does the weather grow
And magpies on the wattle’s bough blend songs with crickets down below

The fan is on, the lights have gone, a sparrow flits upon my lawn
The iridescent dew breaks free and turns to mist above the knoll
A summer’s breath, a gentle plea; a panacea for the soul

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn

Another day of never sun, a leaden heap that frowns above
Whilst the few tangled answers quiver rhymelessly as it trifles
In other ways, however done, instead, a sleep encrowns its love
And the dew-spangled branches shiver timelessly as the sky falls

The paper lanterns on the wall betray the leaves’ seat in the dark
And the cool ochre gloaming spurs a telling and frail ardour
Now vapour cantons over all display the eve’s sweet watermark
And a cruel joking moan occurs, impelling the rainfall harder

I linger by my window pane as twilight reddens every mote
And I stay, candid; I pass days compliantly standing upright
My finger spry discinds the rain and yea, night deadens every note
And a stray strand of ryegrass sways defiantly in the half-light

I pledge allegiance to the bigotry
of the Fractured States of Sanity,
and to the Republican for whom it grovels;
one dystopia, godless, divided,
with liberty and justice for those straight white folks who can afford it

I met an astute hippopotamus.
Though his voice could get very monotonous,
he could quote each refrain
writ by Shakespeare and Twain,
and his knowledge of Dickens was bottomless.

The versatile buttock abounds with
such uses as 'what you sit down with'.
Such a wonderful tool,
but what I find most cool:
‘tis an awf'lly fun thing to make sounds with.

What made us run aground
upon the rocky shores?
Who then began to sing
of the friends that we’d lost?

The egos of ev'ry
person worshipped and crowned
denying nature’s ways
against rocks should be tossed.

Of every trying thing
that we on Earth have found,
nothing surpasses time
in pain and human cost.

If time could be rewound,
what sorrows would it bring?

It's been the longest time, my sweet,
since both the two of us did meet;
it is, I have to say, a treat
to be a part of you again.

And since the moon is getting low,
I guess it's time for me to go -
I'll be back if you want me though,
to be a part of you again.

I fear, my love, I must depart;
I'm thankful for this brand new start,
and (now without a broken heart)
to be a part of you again.

I missed you so when you were gone,
but now it's my turn to go on,
so farewell, dear, until anon;
until we part anew again.

He left her on the lamplit doorstep, smiling,
grateful, finally, for their reconciling.
Then he paused and turned around again,
full of questions he could not contain...

Pardon me for saying, miss;
I only wish once more to kiss
your loving, sacred lips. What bliss
to be a part of you again.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
blinking from who-knows-how-far,
holding captive all our eyes,
muse for all our lullabies.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
how I wonder what you are.

Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way,
cosmic star of cabaret,
filling up our eyes at night,
making moonlight shadows bright.
Twinkle, twinkle, Milky Way -
what a vision you display.

Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy,
often do I think of thee,
hurtling through time and space,
pirouetting in your place.
Twinkle, twinkle, galaxy -
Teach us all to be as free.

There once was a codger from Sydney
who said, 'That bloke stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.

lugubrious
follicle
turgid
splink
perihelion
pickle
fubhole
scrof­ulous
gropingly
carbuncle
gigglepunk
puberulent
squirt
make america great again
wimple

Isn't it a joy to look forward, skyward,
       (head spills to the anti-brain)
and follow with your eyes the wrens and magpies(LOUD)
champions of commonsense who don't care
because they know nothing more?
       (But what do we know no more?
       The eternity before us, the true art of peace...)
No, it's not enough to just look up,
       (yank back to reality, squinting at the dark)
for what a waste the heavens are!
       (No time in the day for that kind of lark)
No, better by far to keep the head down,
       (nose sniff neck stiff brow frown)
keep to the rest of the bunch
       (chin chest eye ground back hunch)
and follow the pristine path instead
       (for then one can't be misled)
and leave the wild, melodic skies
to romantics
     and dreamers
  and wrens
     and magpies

be        au      tifu           lu      ng              ra              teful              talent­e
dd       iff      icult          lo       vi              ng              messy           suppo
 rti       ve     spitef         ul       w             arm            jealous          caring
  cr      az     ychar          m      in              gs               martd           epress
 ing   br    av      et         **     ug            htle             ss     ge          ne
   ro  us     inc     on       sid     er             ate              ad    ap          ta
   ble m     oo       dy      co      m             pass            io      na         te
    stub      bo        rn      af       fe             ctio             na      te         cr
    itica      lp          ra      ct       ic            al  ar            gu     m         en
    tati       ve           w     itt       y            un  pr           ed     ict        ablec
    our      ag            eo    us      to     ­      uc   hy          friendl          yrese
     ntf      ul             he    lp      fu           li      m          patien           tflirty
      sa       rc            as     tic      in          te      re          sting             boastf
      ul       cu           rio    us      in          fle     xi           bl    er          el
      ia        bl            e      cl     ­   in         gy     cre         at     ive        ta
      ct         les         s       **      ne         st     emo        tio     na       ld
      isc         ipl       ine    d        fo         rcefulsex         yse    ns       iti
      ve          su       lle      n        m        od         es        tf        ru      st
      ra            tin   ge         n  thus         ia           st        ic         hy    po
      cr             iticalp          lucky          cl            um     sy        am   usingp
      os             essiv            ecalm         in            g        sn         ide   friendl
       y              pom             pous         ad            ve      nt          ur    ousch      
      ar     ­          ism              atic           br             ok     en          and perfect