Vibrations in measuring cups

form salty sips that fall

on lips full of thoughts

now stifled upon the clock

and its heavier arms

that move, move harder

than smiles, the raising glass, and song –

better at marking time.

And where am I, in this

stripped within myself

for little more

than a reminisce

felt briefly on the knoll

before we tumbled like children

(an easier thing)

on the meadow hill

that was, could have been

but for the neuron fed

punches for the maw and at doors

that open upon






Eyes stray

like the feline feigning

with sunburnt results and

a little bit of fine


at a conversation

that could be danced

like the sunlight rippling

laughter that wets

the air tight

around what was



Middle morning

of a day much like the many,

but nonetheless that takes the breath –

green shade bounds the blue

and the ready call of the wren is fitting here, with this:

a moment tender pressed

for what has passed …

From where to descend

down the worn and roughed step

and across a path that leads to rest.


Until it falls

and now frozen, caught

by a moment’s thought from whence to stare

at the dare waiting …

Where need wins out, reaching low

forcing you back here, with a glance –

of such weight,

in which to pause,


And forever to race

at me …




I would sink into this flesh,

piercing with ivory white to bare

the laced milk of beginnings –

sapling blood flowing,

immersing the all of me

with a ripeness.


i / us


White dashes burn,

cold and calculated on the surface,

measuring the way to what is known.

Striking out along the bitumen, at a part of me,

little markers of memory

meant to guide, divide

those moving in opposite directions.


It’s beautiful there

back where the green holds sway, at least for now;

though I hope it always will be so.

But there is a painful whisper in retracing,

the familiar now divided

between the ‘I’ and the ‘us’ …

A stop sign waiting.


Certain turns turn against me –

a patch of grass, for a minute ours

now, unwanted, devours.

Not only with black, there is certainly light

that I would hold onto,

but I was always more for night.

Which we both knew …




a sparrow darts the grey

redolent of a then fevered heart,

the racing pulse of when


reaching out to the air,

invisible plays across the fingertips

with the subtle fire of your telling curve


where raindrops kiss, and falling

through drowsy depths to a languid hour –

each strike of wetted lips


shifting leaf, whispering,

calling forth the shared rhythm,

the carnal quiver of quickened breath


brimming with fervour,

the dampened bed shadows

the zeal-drenched sheets of singing night


returned through earthy scent

laced and imbued with the essence

of rise and fall upon the crest


where waits a primrose flower

unfolded to the warm spill of sun –

a shaft of giving light


Mt Cook


Powdered sugar seeks out every crack and crevasse,

unnumbered tears flow –

tumbling from a source unseen,

a mirror held to ruddy eyes,

the falls cold piercing clean.


Deep, swift and green-blue waters lace –

pranced and pure the lapping mile,

upon the valley a ribbon smile.

Sand gathers there now the more

to hold the deep at bay

forever more.


Sun ripens green and alights the river wild –

lily-white flower scores the way,

the petalled tears of passing day.

And sweetly played from pinnacle to pine,

the vestal wind

proves a giving clime.


Though broken glacier gathers, humbled at the bearing feet –

pieced together as an erstwhile lover.

Release it from the crown-ed peak

to break the heavens,

to rent asunder.


Flower folds whisper,

undulating like a fabric sea

of waves that strike heavy

on that part of the mind that imagines –

gives form to want, to a fire.


Alight across the way,

blue discs of a colour fierce

and shape embracing, engulfing –

brimming waters deep,

pregnant rivers that elucidate …


In sweeping moves graceful

that close the space between –

a gentle arch curves to a nervous touch,

the hollow of which is elaborate and smooth:

echoing the complexities of this …


This rhythm infused

with a shared energy –

a desired state –

which evocates the interweaving hour,

the dawn of something shared:

a budding flower.



or thereabouts I would guess …

Our eyes met.



We are the breath

caught and born from the burning hand designed,

trailed as a chance.

Searing flesh is our clime

and the temper of our silence:

ruddy marks transmissions between,

muted stars to be divined.


We are the iris

glistening, a wetted convex of want converging,

lacing each gesture, action, with a meaning desired.

Aberrations radiate

with the energy of suns,

but cast no light to refract our waves,

nor the gathering tide between.


We are the beat

quickened, striking hard at the cage,

reaching out for a counter rhythm,

for an echo of self in the mirror waves.

Our proximity brings a race,

a ventricular rush

that masks us from the cloud.


We are the thought,

idyllic, conjured in the witching hour;

held as a beacon in darkest night –

a virgin flower.

The image of which may ripple on the mirror face

but in reflection remain –

such dreams eternal resonate.


For we are …




Today I learnt of his end.

Of the notches left to make in the wood,

the boxes left to mark on the calendar –

the one with a dog somehow smiling as it plays with a favoured bone,

laughing …


Not that he is much marked,

he that was my creation,

given the way the river has turned, twisted

that which is between us.

The way we have twisted it,

let it run its course.

It cannot be removed,

cannot be cut from his core.

Ultimately, it will claim us all:

all is cancerous,

and will give way to the hourglass without warning or design,

mere sand passing through the fingers of He.

Whoever he is …

Whatever this is …

And how will I think on him come thereafter?

It may be he measures as little there as now,

or maybe become something more, something missed.

No …

Wait …

He is already missed –

is a mist to me,

a faint feeling that falls on the iris all too briefly.

Is a husk of what I would know,

and thus am I.

The son.

Detect my light;                                    

wire the optics

unto your own

visual field

and neural paths.

Walk there amongst

the image bulbs;

a fading rose,

or budding bloom.


If only for

a circadian rhythm,

a fleeting glimpse

of another shore.

At best a stemma

of fractured angles,

redacted light;

a suggestive glean,

unlikely though it seems.


In truth like groping

an aberration web,

of sticky strings,

which ring familiar

but never conceive.

More Braille lines

for senseless hands,

as none divine

another’s slant.


tea at 10


Brewing with a morning sun,

aimless parries for the run.

A synthetic front,

with her and him

and him and her;

a common thing …


This stall unto the drudging march,

reflected by a steaming green –

rings of dancing crystal light

frame a dancing tongue

and punching lips,

frozen by the sun.


In something that is not ours;

there is no “us”,

nor should there be.

But for a moment she is wonder,

it is everything,

that, fleeting, life could mean.



Warm water running

gathers around each iris –

a train ride home.




Decayed and dry in the vase,

a shadow of the former, now insipid –

no line or curve inspires want,

no inhalation will wake the neurons

nor fire the nerve impulse,

in light of the history.


Cracked petals once strong

and vibrant yet supple in their pose,

alluring and of a sweet scent,

now bend in the reflection of tepid waters beneath –

drank deeply through root and stem,

that once fed sweetly a beauty replete.


Clouded and black,

gritted with the bilge and grist of passing

and no longer fit for the thirst;

still it is drawn and succoured

though it renders no relief,

only adds to the dearth.


Ghosting in the glass, reflexive,

a telling image remains within each pane,

the forms blurred calling to the fore a glimpse:

of the blooming time,

love budding divine;

when flowers spake of she.




Wading into the shallows,

echoes drift away on the surface, spreading,

fracturing the blue and white mirrored –

sound bands wandering out

in a whisper of you

question on the shore.


Strands of auburn cascade upon the shoal,

dancing on the mirror face.

Liquid lines that morph into the waters,

aqueous curves that satiate

every sense and pulse,

and the questions cease.



Rain fallen, shining;

tiny mirrors on the ground –

therein rests the sky.



I often question,

why I question all the time –

no answer to that.




A crisp breeze nips

at burning lobes;

the edges sensitive.

Exposed skin rubbed ruddy

by invisible hands that bite,

coursing with life.


Streaking silver,

a bullet of pale moonlight

and shimmering surfaces,

racing bright.

Streetlights crane at the passing;

beams dancing off the frame.


In the half-light,

a bird curves

into the eaves of a singular gum,

matching the circles

of rubber spinning;

the arc of limbs giving on.


Cresting the rise

to fallen stars,

resting on a darkened bed:

winking mischievous.

Drawing deeply at the night,

dipping low towards a city bright.


Heading home …


for M


Sweet man of time un-sweet,

fear not the dark and bearing beat.

Such pain is a meter;

the exception that proves,

which soon will be driven and want for you.

A good you that always lurked, 

much like the midnight call,

which clouded your vision in many a hall.

Throw it down this one last time;

taste the burn and brace the rhyme.

None shall pass judgement on this hour’s swill,

not when the dagger pierces still.

Call it a lapse, sweet man, 

collapse it within the despairing stare.

Souls are with you there; the more each day.

These lines have felt it,

have struggled away.

Marching hands alone will prove

that night is not a darkened fool,

but holds many a light to blaze ahead,

and believe it, sweet, you are far from dead.