This crooked timber set deep in these bones
Oh, when the wind blows how they wail, they moan
“Such a fine day for this human design
to wither, to char”. Unpicked fruit on the vine
lingers in sight such a tempting insult
to all we once were, before this result
was tempered by the unyielding seasons
and bone branches creaking for numerous reasons
cling to hold fast, but cannot hold on;
they drop like the fruit, lost and forgotten.
The wind does not care for wind never stops
the branches still creak, still grow old, they still rot.
The winds it blows on, to be bent is to crack
The fruit doesn’t know this, never looks back
to where the wind came from, wind never creeps
but like deadened roots sunk deep in the creek
searches for stones that they mistook for seeds
not held in the murk, carried off on the breeze.
Forget seeds and fruit, leaves or trees under
which we now lie, feeding bones to the sky
The wind won’t uproot you, no earth can unshake
endless regret for on eggshells we quake
at the notion of another long day
trying to reach through the stars in our way
trying to feel for the warmth of the sun
for deep in these bones we know there is none
this crooked timber when set to the rack
will remind these bones there is no way back.

for all these words belong to you
I only hold them for a while
until the time when you are through
for all these words belong to you
I wonder with them what you'll do
perhaps to keep them with your smile
for all these words belong to you
I only hold them for a while

When one returns to empty house
there is a fear that swift resounds
in echo of the homeward bound
that fate has wrought the death of sound
but in each step familiar tropes
unwind to salve the softer hope
for all that home can ever be
is carried in the memory

We are all dead
or we are all alive
We live in the grey
but there is no dividing line
Brown or pink
Black or white
Shades and shadows dividing
by what you think they think
  about why you are
  when what you are
            is living
In dying for difference
            we are lost
In thinking too much
and in not living enough

Help yourself
to the words we left out
in this sunburnt tree
we call them a well turned phrase
because tree corpse
makes books feel macabre
and we love books
like we love words
like we love giving trees
hugs to release oxytocin
but none of this will help you read
between the lines of your unease
so do not look for help
between murderous sheets
self-help is called living
It doesn’t come from a book
and yes I’m aware of the irony
of writing that in a book of poetry
so
help yourself
to these burnt out words
and please
stop cutting down dreams

I don’t have the blues I’ve been gone too long to see colour that way I don’t whats in I don’t know whats hip I cant tell if its lit but I do know that a hit record doesn’t go on parade these days it stays hid inside the lamp light of a back street juke joint on Thursday night the red velvet curtain gives way to a gaping divide between tables, lamplight and this amorphous thing we called it something else and got another drink before closing time; craft beer is cool and not cool unless its so hoppy it bounces down your throat, well this is a rubber room after all hiding jazz behind a ukele doesn’t make a lick of sense, I don’t know the name of that chord but it sounds out a rainbow like the flag hanging from bars we don’t see ourselves walking away from, into, standing in line, I never saw a queue at the bar until I came to Australia and the beat generation don’t want me, my beard is too grey; I don’t look good in plaid and my tattoos are all of video games and science friction, so lets smoke a jay outside and call it 'peter roads is ****' until my back hurts when I sit on the floor, the sky is more blue so I’ll stay down on the upside of the inevitable decline into irreverence and try to flow in my own way; I cant sit under a tree to write this because all the trees smell like dog **** and I don’t keep pets not even hipsters on a loose leafed leash held tightly in a loose grip, if this party is lit light a candle for the cantrip and slip backwards into another poem about identity, inequality and privileged cleche, there is no beat to a slipstream left by a minority of white skin wishing doesn't make it so, so if I wish I could be cooler than this I can find the colour blue in a cheaply printed hue so try a monochromatic thin lipped smile we are not goths anymore just standing between the candle and the star, I tried to read more Jack but even that wont help unplug the colours in a rainbow - when it catches the breeze blowing through me - I wont remember your name but I see your face when I sleep and I like your piercings and your piercing gaze it sees right through my colour scheme to the heart of all this prevarication, I don’t have the blues and I don’t know whats cool, I don’t know whats cool, I don’t know whats cool and I don’t have the blues on a shoe string, I prefer bare feet on weekday; lets take a walk and see what the kids say when they hear this

I hear voices in my head
I hear them sound like dead
people on Any Given Sunday
an ungracious abundance
of other peoples’ voices

I hear them most
when other people speak
loudness leaks from moving lips
to say words that make no sense
that say something else
the Politics of Experience
unfold me like some geometric inkblot

I see Batman
I see Batman
I see BATMAN

Did you hear that?

It sounded like Batman
like a Batarang
catching some villainous cape
like a car door closing
on a Great Escape

it sounded like
                     two people
competing for head space
the one being said
the one being meant
the silence in between them
speaks volumes to itself
No, please say that again
in a sonorous tone
it snores my inner demon
to groan behind an asinine
slumbering inside each line
wound with reservations grinding
our hero chopped off from loose lips
to fit in the caustic grimoire of actual fact

I am the Bat
I am the Bat
I am the Bat

I hear voices in my head
that sound like conversations
an unwilling participant am I
by virtue of presence, my
lips unlocked never seem
                       to speak enough
though lips move more gratefully
than these feet that just want to leave
this place, to never talk again
sit behind a screen
be pixelated, a thinly
gleaming monitor
of the fun facts lacking
in a lark-full repartee
I check up on myself
look up the words that I doubt
check my bruises
from roundhouse kicks
split lips bloodied with small talk
sweet silence is
to stay home and smoke

I should stop talking

Did you hear that?

and when they play like they don’t know
don’t let them go
make them stay
to tell us what
they meant to say
#againandagain
#againandagain

I hear voices

Did you say something?

what person could have known
how a cataclysm rolls in
            slowly
         obscuring
the towering force
                  of nature
what person could have known
that there was a tip to that tower
how cold is the view from its peak
now clouded by teardrops
now rising through
though heaven made mist of the sky
rising from a cotton mouth
to make a liar of the tongue
what person could have known
for we do not speak
of a lonely tower
but to climb it
we do not speak
of a distant summit
but to find it
we do not speak
but we see it
rising from a bluff
on a cold shoulder
turned away from gruff land
on a plain sky residing
it is not enough
to pierce the sky
to see through it
where there is a window
there is a view
it must be seen to be true
where there is a cloud
there is the sun
shrouded though it seems
get high enough
to find the clue
what person could have known
that you were here alone
watching for a break in the storm
unless it was them all
and the tower was home
to everyone
all at once

It is a sad, sad story
for the successes of the past do not fare to serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is a nationalist sigh of relief
and the arc of our world is divided by invisible lines that cross borders
but across which only poverty ****, recorded and scored, shall pass
when the successful liar is preferred to the lonely sage
are we not prepared to accept that which we serve
are we not prepared to eat from the plate we have earned
to sup on anarchistic attitudes, imbibe narcoleptic morality
then purge our selective brutality on the servers
for we have earned this, that which fell into our laps
a modern life made tolerable by the indictments of demagogues
for freedom’s a blight in the nightmares of demagogues
shopkeepers made frightful by the incitement of demagogues
we don’t need rights when we’ve the rightness of demagogues
we know they are liars, but are they successful liars?
we know they start fires so they can be better seen
presiding over the funereal pyre of our former freedom
some bishop of hate and self-interest raised up by our fear
to a pulpit of nations drawn low by wage slavery
to a podium impatient for their arrogant knavery
to a rostrum of hatred unsated by gross economic products
to a minbar frustrated by allegations and false prophets
It is a sad, sad story
for our past failures, our careless disregard will not serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is the demagogues rise to belief
we are weakest only when we are weak
and no backs will lift this burden but our own
A sad story indeed

There are no monsters but the night
it fills
these blankets, looming heavy
over a narrow bed, empty
but for me
my fears
and weak lungs rasping
for the peace I fear
will not come before the sun
-  -
I am here loved one
You are next door but I am here
to tease soft sense from fingers clenched
about a sheet dampened
by the absence of dreams

You will find sleep again
for the horrors of the wide awake cannot face you with aught but empty space
heavy blankets hold you close
it is not a shroud but a cloak
to shed darkness like rain
That faint rattle and rooftop roar
is water falling
Not footsteps
A gentle touch to this switch
a little flick and click!
You can be free of it
Rest love
Let peace be your companion
let darkest lips kiss heavy lids
with soft promises
whispering in a new day waiting
just for you
Tomorrow is coming
and that right soon
so be ready love
to spring from this mattress
and until then, do not fear the dark
- -
This whispered breath
I welcome it
This beast so familiar with this room
a gentle tomb to watch over you
and press me to the wall
knees clenched to my chest
until dawn makes monsters of us all

Of higher learning

We place a loose leash of knowing about slender throats
Caught hard in hollows, a not knowing breath
whose taste slipped into my words learned by rote
I wrote them all down then disregarded the terms
to a rattling gasp of old honour under contract
to self interest; a mid-career master of the dead
passing zombie bus stops still chasing the wind
past car parks come too late to a recording of record
bare baited notations pass status updates into the wind
Faith hung from some devils bargain by the late fee
What value has learning when you can’t find a teacher
Willing to work for the purpose of knowledge alone
Better choke it for the economics of high yield returned
To the word caught in this throat, it churns like cinders, last smoking
weft from the building we built just to watch it burn

Let us share
        an incantation of the old world
Let us unfurl words like a string of pearls
torn from ocean deep - I battled Krakens
to bring you these words – let me wreathe
the drowning seed of ancient demons
in a modern tale of high rise jewellery
You can wear me at your leisure
for I am a book of poetry - open in your hands
caress my pages - I offer ages of wisdom in sand
strung sorrowful about a stony neck
can you see the mystery of that cloud
striated by the mountains tip carved
deep into the sky in defiance of the wind
unbowed by time yet so vulnerable
to lion and tiger, to the hermit and his tearful rain
did you know that every beach was once a mountain?
so every ocean floor kissed the sky in its youth
let us built these fragments into clamshells
string them on pearlescent pages turned
by curious eyes and ponder how time
makes a mystery or a monster of us all
Let us share
              this incantation of the old world
for in words
              we can live forever

Dreams are not the stuff of poets
We can do better, should not chase them
Dreams are the stuff of lost souls
and though some of them can write
I do not know why we reward it
with forgetful immortality, when the Gods
they have abandoned dreamers
to the desert of the real
my spine does not know of dreams
my tail lashing even in its rest
this whip-crack vertebrae does not forget
and the Gods can get ******

The daylight has been saved
rescued from winters gaze
wrapped up, pinned in tin foil
it crinkles and catches
the kitchen window scent
of yesterday left
out on the amber sill
we forgot about time
folded it into gaps
woke up an hour too late
to catch the early bus
but daylight has been saved
dropped in the piggy bank
squirrelled away and then
tomorrow when we forget
how to breathe we will pray
for the winter and its scarves
for its rosy cheeks and long
nights with shorter evenings
summer is too bright for us
but daylight has been saved
maybe if God was real
it could tell us where we
left time, why it matters
and how to get it back

Is there space in this system for new rules
Can we find them hiding behind old books
Some dusty office at the top of a pole
Bleak ivory with a view well known
to all of us, who have got what we want
Whose privileged breath breathes deep of high times
stuffed with all those norms and expectations
litigating obligations ignored,
ignored; yet enforced by free tyranny
of the individual, of ones rights
without the weight of responsible
judgement. NO, there is no space up here, NO
not for straighter rules or greater fools
though latter too many, former too few;
These old rules are crooked, like hind quarters
dragged up the long torrid stair to the top
held up by lofty ideals, righteous… no
We seem in these high places to have forgot
whyfore we came to be here or how rotten
we are, that rot set into the books, the rules
the shelves, the pages, the walls, the food
Into the words, the system, the wages
paid to those shoring up this modern day
Babel. No well-intentioned roads lead here
No one will choose to walk these ugly stairs
No one will come, those lonely inventions
Freedom, liberty, the individual
Let them gather and groan in old walls
Mildewed bricks and misted rattling bones
Left here forgotten by those living below
Seen from on high in this ivory tower
This pale tower where no one lives, no one.

For this tree loves everybody
it is bright, it is lovely, it is … short
truncated yet hopeful
all the colours of the rainbow
This tree does not care who you ****
or what you put in to which hole
This tree has no holes, no cracked old bones
just a spectrum, a bole covered in a gentle bark
no reprimand, no judgement, an open elemental heart
It has no plateau of leaves to offer shelter
but it is here and it loves you whether
you care for the woods, for the rain or not
This tree loves everybody
Its bark is deep, it is cracked, it is flawed
and though it is aged and short, truncated
by fate and the nature of this place
it is unbowed echoing all that we hope
will come to pass, for this tree is yours
it grows all the colours of the rainbow
Let it brighten your grey sky grey day
Let it remind you that things may yet change
Let it smile for you when you can't raise
enough brightness inside to chase away
all that we've lost, all that we fight for
For this tree loves everybody
and so can we all,
                       so can we all,
                                      so can we all

The ones who walk away from us tread heavy
shoes with light hearts; there is a track they left
into darkness. I walk to look but not to see,
blinkers on, for the vision of the future
they do see is now my greatest enemy,
filling horizon wide futures with no
reprieve for time well spent learning half-truth
history doomed to new repeating as we
push our stone in their tracks, bear their mistakes
like albatross best pinned to glittering
chests o’er fluttering breast let they that walk behind
swell our ranks let us hope they can see wider skies
let them be greater than we, wiser than we
Take this stone burden from our heavy brows,
we were too few to change the path, but hold
bright to some weighted pendulum of hope
They will not forgive us for what we could not do,
we are too few, yet they will not forget
as we walk away into twilight in our turn

I have words
   good words
      all the best words
         they come out of me
      in fountains
   cascading
waterfall words
   flushing away doubt
      over the edge
         over the precipice
      I speak
   falling words
splashing words
   drowning words
      there are rocks at the bottom
         broken bones
            buried treasure
               known unknowns
            wrapped in reedy words
         left here by thrill seekers
     terrorists, murderers      
   rapists
jumping off cliffs
   swimming over rivers
climbing the walls that I built
   I am a great builder, you see
      but it's not all about me and my words
   I have questions too
Why do the bubbles breathe when I can't?
   Is this light refracted a mirror of the dark?
      Is there such a thing as a grindelow?
         Can't we stop them?
           What is this weight
              pulling me down
                Can I swim?
              Will I drown if I don't win?
            Don't look too closely
       for I don't know anything
   I never did
Let me back in
   I always win
     You'll be sorry
         You will be sorry
     all that will be left
   is a scorched blonde wig
a scorched earth
   a pile of empty emperors clothes
      and legislated words
         captured in email,
            cooked until raw
         served over the body politic
      burnt and broken by the fall
    of ***** grabbing brawlers
  drowned and forgotten in a furore
of water hurtling towards the forgetful sea
   and it's endless tides will bring the bodies back to shore
won't wash away the misdeeds, you don't know that half of it
you will never be clean
  But not me
    I am very rich you see
       I will float away on an endless tide
         of empty promises
            corporate endorsements
               and established exploitations
                  leaving only the roaring echo of the flood
               in which all your words
            all your worthless worlds
         were washed away
      so ask yourself
  on voting day
   who do you hate less?
   who do you hate more?
will it always be this way?