Poem #99

Oh, tell us!

Won’t you tell us?


The master-poet smiled.

The smile meant no.


He adjourned to the coast to die.

From a clifftop verandah he peered down

At the swash, hoping for a glimpse of Venus,

Birthing on the waves.

He didn’t see her,

And so he lay down to die.


Crowds bubbled to hear The Simile:

Students, professors, aficionados,

Past lovers, fellow poets,

Those who knew the master-poet

As a sardonic cad.




I’m like the tooth fairy,

In that I’m secretly your Dad.

Poem #97



I know the universe works mentally…

I know everything.


Later still,

He came upon a revelation.

We all see it differently.

A summer’s breeze

Is nothing is

One soprano in an Aeolian choir is

God’s breath is

A brotherly flux in air pressure is

Feeling balmy on the skin after

All day sending emails.

More though,

The mind is as malleable as code:

You can edit, you can edit, you can edit.

Poem #94

The sun did not rise today-


He pounced unannounced,

Shouldering his jealousy

Into the unguarded Earth.

He’d seen, you see,

How she seldom shied

From the lips of the breeze;

He’d noted too

The chiselled moon,

And how he’d come early,

Adorning the blue.

So as long as he might,

He kept his lover in sight,

Stifling her surface

With a cloying love bright.

Her grass he yellowed,

And my skin pinks,

Blushing until, reluctant,

He sinks.

Poem #69

If she sells seashells in south Seychelles

And he sees those same shells with a keen glean for resale

And steals them at wholesale for a sixteenth of their retail

And retreats upshore with a privately-armed detail

To shore up his export from Victoria to a female

Who had entreated by email that he depart for Seychelles

To see about those seashells

Then return to the Tennessee Dales

So she might inweave coastal scree trails

Upon her textile in greyscale

Designed not to regale but to derail

Shell’s feelers amidst the deep shale

But this actavist’s glee in Actavis meant that she fell

From a height now deemed lethal

So her project was reshelved

Until her complete works sold pell-mell

To a collector in Seychelles

Who had wedded that same shell-sell

Who eddied this whole verse tale

– has the world been well?





Poem #67

Fear that I frittered my teenage years

And will stay playing catch-up

For however long I’m here;

Fear that a taut abdominal wall

Is the only partition

Between me, Joe Bloggs, et al.;

Fear that I can’t yoke words like Danny Brown,

Or spill seventeen pitchers

Of wit whilst acting the clown;

Fear that I do things I knew I would not,

Fear that my old-old-self I,

By necessity, forgot;

Fear that my idols are far less than their prattle;

Fear that i don’t really fear

This fear list

At all.