back

Unplugged.

 

The hardest thing

About splitting up

With that

vicious,

manipulating

bitch.

 

Was loosing access

to her sweet little

super fucking fast

broadband connection.

 

It’s tough love

on the god damn

dial up!

 

(Jan 2001 Pre Kevin 07)

 

The Portrait.



She floats

She arches her neck and calls

To her sisters, as they fly.

 

In the cage of a coming winter

She is left, amongst the rotting reeds

To addle in circles, around her mirror.

 

In the frosted air, tiny wrens

still dance before her painted beauty

Her crown, she remains the queen.

 

But her eye is snared

A spreading stain

Hunts, in all that preening glory.

 

Beneath the snow white

The feathered splendour

In the mud, a dark worm never slumbers.

 

Beneath that flawless reflection

The thing crawls and slithers, unspeaking

Long sickly tendrils loop, to hold her.

 

Saw toothed lies snake and coil

History rears, a rhythm

Of anguish, in a search for blood.

 

She cannot turn

And look away

From sickly hands, her pallid horror.

 

The pool is still,

The wing beats long gone

Alone, she sings her muddied song.

 

She is drawn

To her reflection

And relives it, once again.

 

Her portrait of Dorian Gray

 

(March 2000)

 

 

Afternoons

 

I love that feeling,

a bottle each of afternoon wine

 

Sitting around, our feet propped on the table,

among our laughter and the chiming Bell Birds

 

The warm wine hugging my eyes

as we watch the pelicans sweep overhead

 

Our faces washed by the chill breeze

drawn up, through the trees, from the pounding ocean

 

That bitter sweet taste

of my dusty teeth and Lou Reed on the stereo

 

And that quiet sleepy feeling

as the sun begins to sink behind the spotted gums.

 

and the slowing afternoon closing

as the birds fall silent, settling to roost

 

And Lou skips, breaking that dry saturated song.

The light is gone, we grow cold, and I crave my bed.

 

 

Book Shop Cafe

 

Through the café window

where I sit drinking tea

I watch the people

passing by, in the darkness

of the  narrow street.

 

In the lights of passing cars

a mid-sized Turkish boy,

stands on the cobblestones

with his hands stuck

deep in his pockets.

 

Wide eyed with wonder

he glances in the window

of a bright burlesque

women’s clothing shop.

 

He is drawn close

intoxicated by the warm

perfume world of women.

 

It might just be me

stupid with weeks alone

but he seems lost

lonesome, and searching

for soft pale arms and breasts

to wrap himself in.

 

 


A hand rests on my shoulder

and I abandon him

to the street lights

and his boyish longings

to whatever he is watching.

 

A young student

from Ankara shows me

the English language books

and she smiles, in sympathy

at the clumsiness

of a large-sized boy.

 

and I smile, shyly back

and I am no longer alone.

 

(Antakia, Turkey Feb 2009)

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