poem in the fridge (for Sarah)


poem in the fridge

for Sarah St Vincent Welch


things opened are in here

the can of worms, the ointment fly

stool samples, acid trips, specimens


all sorts, oh and did I mention dinner?

voice says ‘we are your dead in here’

the feast preserved , slow cultures


cut off from nature

thing that could bite once

‘we go through your guts in time’


each packet bears its epitaph

and one day rise to justice?

dark thoughts when the door is shut


so all we meat must fear

poem in the fridge (for Sarah) Read More »

one of these days we’ll be discovered

one of these days we will be discovered


little corner, too much information

then it will be as if we were sought

though that cannot be the case


some ones will come here to this place

which isn’t one at all

and ear to the soil of our saying


one of these days we’ll go through the wash

come out gospel clean

sleep like babies in there


it will be a small day

smug rounded for glory

some call triumph too


the day of vindication play

like Jesus on the water always was a bird

like sesamum Buddha

like Bouraq for a Houyhnhnm 

and we’ll be Struldbrugs then


it’ll be on POET’S day of course

sometime and soon

with a weekend lovely looming


cheese and chalk

a toffeyed nose

tricks of all along the way –

the cheering we’ll begin!


we’re building our pyramid

inside out, top down

bit of a leap and it’s a pyre too


the universe is closing now

time is almost over

but one of these days we’ll be discovered

we’re the team coming out on the pitch


everyone will join in

ring to the echo


we’ll find ourselves of course first

work out who to be


till then my humble hunch is

it’s safe for us in here 


one of these days we’ll be discovered Read More »

these flying islands

these flying islands


gone like a cool breeze


frisbee free

strophe propelled

canvas a range of opinion

idea thrust


pastoral comical tragical



find you here

in if you like

a conversation


that’s it

lean in with

tip till

keep a grip


let the string out

breeze take

beats tap

rarely rhyming


who will have the tiller then?

call a tug-o-war



take in and trim the cat

watch while

we let down ladders, many


sometimes it seems like a pile of islands

lift let

and there are becalmings

latitudes for donkey



a prize

for the most beastly behaviour

allowances age made

here are the ruins

and blow me down –

the annual awards!


on the carpet

or took off by rug

come from the rope

and ever enough

down for the canvas count

won’t you look up




Saturn high V


one bean for a cow and grew to this

pitch a tent skyward

fee fie on’t



not for profit

so let’s swap

I’ll show you if you’ll read mine



damn those hornball cicadas


islands are all second guessing

they are the dead flock

each go alone

above my nation


bombers have held a fete


call glissement

a capture of say eau d’imagination

or not

often as slap in the wet belly fish

come catch and toss again


time wasted!

not me off the hook


sail on!

and then the thousand years

sail of the line ride finest


little books for a world come ever smaller

pack fairytale

they’re seasonal


cast like coins two up

friends in the head

and many the tricks of presence are

wrought for the warmer world


blow me down

then a line gets out

sticks for instruction

mantra or an admonition

self to self

go go


toys and islands

in the bath once

was the whole of a harbour

storm safe

in the aeon till everything begins


you can take the machine apart

islands flutter by mechanical

wound as the heavens once must have in


a twinkle up for stars

never the same together but twice


see under them the workings

flowering all

come in a burst of cloud


propel the self as if by fart


or the how-they

pulleys sprockets

cogs rags oiled

toes grip the rung


slippery devil

then float free


ringside for angels falling


and every weather


dance up in the air like this

others clear blue

and Christmas again

the Sunday month


I’m opening a door here

part your own mists, will you, won’t?


make births as from the undersea

and who will say volcano?


from all walks

many more in mind


sunk ones too

and islands down


someone hid a sneer behind

soon outed though

and back to task


we better a world as we go

make it up as

we’re here

we’re gone

ready or not


and here we come

high as fast as who can fly


as is the leaf uplifted

a vapour trail and gone


these flying islands Read More »

the Clive Palmer Monument


the Clive Palmer Monument


will be smaller than life

and careless thereof…


it fronts the museum of

where the workers were never paid

what they are owed’s colossal!


some say kitsch and some grotesque

something for everyone

dinosaur bones!


both thumbs up

loves a lie

things he touches turn to shit


the Clive Palmer Monument

features the pineapple’s raw end

it is less than a lawnmower    

or see-through Anzac


man that is cut down like a green blade

in his prime…


here’s not the Brahman bull

but steaming product thereof

served on billboards


and – while misboding – here’s

the missing pizzle part

(you’d need a microscope

that’s how fast he drives, flies, litigates)


really it is a hole in the ground

plenty of poison for everyone


the Clive Palmer monument

is being erected by the legal profession

(kind of a thank-you note)


It’s where ‘Midas has ass’s ears’ is buried

and there to this day the grass is singing

it’s all about Clive – always was and always will be  



makes great

the lone and level sands stretch far from…


General Clive’s drive

by the church called Saint Clive’s

statue of the sleeping Cross-Bencher


Clive is a one man rotunda  

a sun comes out of his nethers to shine

best of all

Clive is still alive


what a rascal!

delightful mischief!  boys own

takes so long to wipe up there


the tropics their own monument

why try to make any sense?


the Clive Palmer tribute is something

not quite biodegradable

was thrown from a car with much deliberation

a kind of minor trumpery, before and after that avatar

there was a time when you could vote for this


and because you ask me

I can confirm

yes this is all personal –

we call the highway Bruce


the Clive Palmer Monument Read More »

myth of a-semism


myth of a-semism


there is no mark without meaning

neither made nor found


try to make nonsense

go on


those who set out

do just that

they have tumbled an ark into stone

they this that

here’s the picture of nothing at all


it’s tinkle whiff

the chimney slept

the life raft leapt


like lightning spread

clouds gone from the page


one day some one will cypher it

one day someone will know

myth of a-semism Read More »

responding to John Bennett’s love poem


the legislators acknowledged at last


having expelled all thoughts of republic


peace declared universally

with every kind of song and dance

guardians tickled to a fit


everyone listens

we take turns


money’s abolished

the budget is open

machines, but only if they’re fun


everyone will get enough

sleep, cuddles, sweetmeats, admiration

and every tree may grow

come koalas!


your golden age

the borders gone

Zeus patron of the exiles, cross-dressed

open to all suggestion


this is a world of infinite care


or do as you damn well please


no one is blamed for what they can’t help

everyone held to opinion


do we need watches, clocks?

no crimes against humanity!

where no one will remember tomorrow

or read between these lines


all this is proclaimed – a NO year plan

must have been the way I slept


and those who believed in us

whom we loved


the dead shall rise

to our conversation

argue the toss

and call account


it’s all looking good from here


plus a haiku 

the rain persisting here too

I take off my hat

unzip and join in 


responding to John Bennett’s love poem Read More »

roadkill – responding to Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘the recent burials’



responding to Sarah’s ‘the recent burials’


wallaby gone when we came back with rifle

so push off the tar

and days watch by, summer fast

yd hardly see the crows, or who were they (?)

driving by each day


dog of my childhood

in a backyard gone

and the time capsules (late sixties) must be there still too

damp mouldy remains of still live and breathe

important things forgotten now

but smell bad

and straight to the bin


sometimes you’d think the whole planet bones

sunk further toward the molten core

but some were smoke before


no one buried the dinosaurs

that was a sad sad day    

roadkill – responding to Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘the recent burials’ Read More »

destination Belanglo


destination Belanglo


responding to Tug’s


the Belanglo joke: coming through the forest at dusk, the hitchhiker says to Ivan, ‘it’s getting dark and scary in here’. Ivan replies, ’You’re scared? I’m the one who has to walk back on my own’


it’s always coincidence brings us

atoms to the cell

moments pile


the girl in the boot on the highway    

the narrow escape of her friends


have to imagine thrust and parry

the bundling in


and that these people were, not of their nature, newsworthy


some will say good as she got


warrant outstanding in a twist (interstate)

was this an over-zealous citizen’s arrest?

a knife for compliance from the dream kitchen


so many known unknowns here

and so on, vice versa


narrow, lucky

dizzy in the dark, forced

minus meds in there


though bloody and still bleeding

could poke out a tail light

wave a truck down


would no news have been good for them?

had she gone quiet?

was it all screaming?


so many questions the courts are for

and can have no doubt this was justice

lurid albeit


once were like sisters

and some sisters are

merely acquainted

but you cross a line


motives still under investigation


we do know

it was her own car



destination Belanglo Read More »

Responding to Beatrice Machet’s ‘written on two collages’


clad in a vanishing


one room of the sea

where the singing drowned

wake knowing a beach washed there


each chamber set to its different time

and catch along the corridor

like fate

age each


clouds all too telling

are they more smoke than bone?


in a garden where time went

and here comes the day


see how up down steps

a dance


fallow feeling

where summer struck


you can smell each separate century


and song where I was

in the circle before


come through the book

made nonsense of


these are the clothes under the skin

cannot be washed


could curl up in a question – ask


who is the arrow?

and how have we flown?


going to sleep in another language

waking up where we are


day is waiting far down in the dream


we go with the words to be

go to the edge of the known





vestita per malaperado

unu ĉambro de la maro
kie dronis la kantado
vekiĝu sciante, ke strando tie lavis sin

ĉiu kamero ekiris al sia malsama tempo
kaj kaptu laŭ la koridoro
kiel la sorto
aĝo ĉiu

nuboj tro rakontantaj
ĉu ili estas pli fumo ol osto?

en ĝardeno, kie pasis la tempo
kaj jen venas la tago

vidu kiel supren laŭ ŝtupoj

neklaraj sentoj
kie frapis somero

vi flaras ĉiun apartan jarcenton

kaj kanto kie mi estis
en la rondo antaŭe

trairu la libron
faris sensencaĵon de

jen la vestaĵoj sub la haŭto
ne povas esti lavita

povus kurbiĝi en demando - demandi

kiu estas la sago?
kaj kiel ni flugis?

dormi en alia lingvo
vekiĝante kie ni estas

tago atendas malproksime en la sonĝo

ni iras kun la vortoj esti
iru al la rando de la konata

vêtu d'une disparition

une chambre de la mer
où le chant s'est noyé
se réveiller en sachant qu'une plage y est lavée

chaque chambre réglée à son heure différente
et attraper le long du couloir
comme le destin
âge chacun

nuages ​​trop révélateurs
sont-ils plus de la fumée que des os?

dans un jardin où le temps passait
et voici le jour

voir comment monter les étapes
une dance

sensation de jachère
où l'été a frappé

tu peux sentir chaque siècle

et la chanson où j'étais
dans le cercle avant

viens à travers le livre
fait un non-sens de

ce sont les vêtements sous la peau
ne peut pas être lavé

pourrait se recroqueviller dans une question - demander

qui est la flèche?
et comment avons-nous volé?

dormir dans une autre langue
se réveiller où nous sommes

le jour attend loin dans le rêve

nous allons avec les mots pour être
aller au bord du connu

Responding to Beatrice Machet’s ‘written on two collages’ Read More »