time passes, does it not,
trickling away in drops, from a leaking tap unnoticed
imperceptible, drops of our days and months that
tsunami into years

we might grow more cynical or wise
we might allow the animals to howl or to transform
or we might eliminate hierarchy and symbolism
and see plain and clear past the allegory
what is left of the experiment
(an unintended one, an unknowing participant even)
the residue, the remains of the years –
what chemical composition do we have?
What has transpired here? -
as clueless as we are of the first expansions
the time when the universes arrive in another cycle;
or perhaps we could see everything in the cocksureness of faith
and drag on, in suspension, leave in doubt or in certainty –
each but a conditioning, a myth,
the truth shrouded in symbol and plainness
O sweet loves,
Time wraps us in its mysterious archaic cyberspace
an inner space that draws a roar, a bark, a howl
and we have justifications, visionary words, systems
to put everything into perspective
like a Titian framed so elegantly in an esteemed museum

Look woman, you are my woman
as I am your man
And I fish all day
and sometimes nights too
and I come back from the dangers
and the labor and ****** ******* customers
who haggle over my fish at the marketplace
and they devalue my fish
and demean my labor
And then I come home with the coins
and I put them in your palms
and no doubt you cook me a sumptuous dinner
but come night, when the breeze carries the scents of the jasmine in
I’d expect a little fishing between us too, you know

You know, I’ve got me fish down my bottom
that’d I like to release, let it swim deep in your pond –
but this pushing me away at nights, and whispering ”You smell like a fish”
or “I’ve got a headache now” -
this will not do, cause you know,
my fish does swell much and that causes me pain and anguish
Because my blowfish really does want to move
and there you go telling me:
“You smell fishy” – what do you expect?
You married a fisherman, you know!
I’m not going to smell like a goat or a pig or an ox
cos I’m no butcher

And that makes me think
maybe you’re doing a bit of your own fishing all day
when I’m gone
so really you ought to
let my fish swim nights free in your pond
or surely I’ll bring my coins to a woman
in the huts at the marketplace
who’ll freely let my blowfish swim easy
whenever I put coins in her palms
And I can get me a change of woman too
So what will it be tonight? – does my fish swim free?
So, woman, you are my woman
as I am your man
And let us do what a fisherman and fisherwoman do together
when they are each other’s
and so let us add another chapter in the Manual of Love:
*Fisherman’s Fish and Fisherwoman’s Pond

the clouds hang over the mountains
the mist over the trees
and our huts are hidden in the moving fog
that stretches over our seclusion
most days;
on a good day when the sun
regains its strength
we see the mountains
and there is clarity in our hearts…

and so are our days spread
like the trees and mountain ranges
over this enduring earth

spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face*

peanut butter
more than tar on the road
peanut butter
with my naan and my rice
lay it on the noodles
and peanut butter with tofu
don’t forget a dollop
with the curry too


good pasta and pizzas
become better
soaked in peanut butter
Ye Olde English Sandwich
flames like a dragon
fixed with half a bottle
of the New World Inca paste

*spread it on thick
on my bread and biscuit
lots of peanut butter
twice as thick
as grandma’s
makeup cake on her face

row this boat, let us;
in this boat we are
given a respite, calm waters
and smooth passage, at least the while

and so let us row the boat past the fingers of land
past the trees and receding assurances
and the enveloping air like an imperceptible menace
and Mt Fuji like a blessing, but the inscrutable skies all round -
who knows how long a friend, a comfort?
row this boat then, only our skills are certain
only our intended destination
(for even the benign presence we know is fickle)
and who is to know if we may even reach land?
all destiny is in the hands of the waves;
we are but driftwood, we are…enjoy the rhythm
and when it’s wild, enjoy the thrill of the ride

I am one of those
who do watches
and people love to watch me -
they watch, but ironically,
they call me Watch Man

Well, for a start, I can eat watches
At a recent show
I ate 4 watches in 6 slow hours -
it was time-consuming

My wrists stretch on the touch of
watch bracelets
and so they made me wear many to see
how many I could wear on each wrist
20 on either wrist is what my stretch could take –
yeah, you could say,
I just had too much time on my hands
Last on show they made me wear a belt of watches
which was a pretty waist of time,
if you know what I mean

Look I’ve applied
to join DC Comics
Me as Watch Man
along with the likes of Iron Man, the Hulk
and Spider Man and such characters nondescript
But I’ve been turned down
Just not your time yet, I’ve been told

Well, so I content myself meantime
as Watch Man at Freak Shows
Doing the Time
before my Big Time
When there are enough time-savvy people
Who can recognise the genius
of those who do watches

I bought a sundial
for my garden

It would be perfect, I mused
in the sudden spot
Quaint, archaic – and provide an old-world charm;
a tribute to times past

and so it is there in the corner
but the ****** sundial is useless
for it doesn’t tell me
if it’s AM, or PM
like my digital watch does, like my iPhone does -
can you beat that?
No, trust me - they didn’t make things before
better than what come out of our sweatshops now