Perfect Poet Award Week 71

August 31, 2012 § Leave a comment

Thanks to Hyde Park Poetry for my Perfect Poet Award!

I nominate Dieu on the Grass for the next award!

Some visual poetry in the form of a mountain (my mountain actually):



August 20, 2012 § 2 Comments

my quietness has a woman in it
and I carry her, heavily, through the streets
to Frank O’Hara’s house
we ask him:
why did you write the words that stirred my feelings
into a hot red soup of passion,
the letters floating in, like blind men drowning
he tells us:
when you are as colourless as a night sky
when you are as troubled as I;
words will carry you home when you become
too heavy for them


August 12, 2012 § 2 Comments

who can say we are the end or start of history

it is our story that has complicated the orbit of the earth

and no one reads it with soul.

the dreamers who find their way by moonlight

are not punished by it

they do not see the sunset: this is their tragedy

I do not see the moonlight: this is mine

the king was in my dream and I said to him

‘become the beekeeper of your own imagination’

but he fled from the feeling.

You didn’t catch me.

August 10, 2012 § Leave a comment


The only thing worse than:

August 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

a suntan?

is the woman inside of it.

the new house is painted, but the lawn looks older than the drawn curtains.

the only thing worse than the curtains,

is the woman behind them.

the haven built around the playgroud, the ball inside the net.

the outline of dragon wings across your shoulders tweaked by

the only thing worse than

your. tanline.

Why are you so interested, anyway?

August 5, 2012 § Leave a comment

You can write all you want in the sand. I won’t be there to read it.

I’ve gone to search for god-truth in the dunes, the streets, outside restaurants, in fields of sunflowers, between tables and cigarettes, south of Roma even, where the searching is punctuated by sunshine and I’m melting, the eternal truth lies fast between two lines.

Not a cross, but an ‘x’, marking the spot where the thing I knew I had was found, was owned, was had.

Coffee, then whatever. I won’t be there to hold you into the early hours and the clear-skied cold of the Tuscan AM, or over the ‘summer of love’ blaring brightly from the screen in the corner.

You can knock all you want on 220 because I’m not there anymore and I won’t answer or call from my balcony or rent a bike to see the sun go down with you, or feel tragic when the full moon frowns down at our lovemaking, or just. Listening.

I’m returning to neuro-surgeons and attorneys and dinner at Hotel Astoria and cars that start and doors opened and this which is the opposite of love but fills evenings with prosecco, politics and opinions. Weekends in Cinque Terre and comparisons to Audrey Tautou in ‘Hors de Prix’ and the waiter on the motorino is always. You.

It’s not what I want but what I need in the moment that calls out, as if from a sea-scroll, the bare necessities of this existence, halfway up and halfway down a Florentine mountain. I’ll see you again.

Otherwise I would have let the ocean of feeling run down my cheeks from my spirit-ceiling and out of the room, clung to you and screamed in broken Italian and packed my case, and started all over again, like at eighteen. There are no ‘lessons’ just new strings and new ways to tie them up with old fingers, new ways to get lost in string forest and lose all feeling. And then.

Find it again.

Where Am I?

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