Collapse

Its last pulse was the echo of an interior draught. Some time ago the sluggish monopod had taken its leave. Beached on the concrete path the brown shell has no way of putting itself at safety. The unseeing crunch the barren passageways underfoot. — The above poem is about an abandoned snail shell like the

The Age Show

Roll up! Roll up! To see the hairy Caucasian lady with her mandible chin hairs protruding since she long gave up plucking or pulling or waxing them off. And nobody else cares to do it for her. Hairs and cavernous wrinkles! Roll up! It’s not a wig. That’s naturally grey. Under the chin? A wattle

Dying is probably easier than this

It’s Thursday, 06:15 You wake up to the alarm knowing you will never win an Olympic medal publish a novel that would win the Man Booker, finish your degree or even pay the last R150 you owe Woolworths. Your first grandchild will die before you and each of those candles you lit in the cave

Near Liverpool Street under scaffolding

What do you believe? I believe to see truth lived quietly and consistently is powerful. My father died like that. In trees we find tall truths deeper rooted than human folly. I believe in stakes that make us choose a path right, or left or denial. Denial comes back to haunt us in choice, again.

Stuck

Lento con agitato, for 10 minutes to to to tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow too morrow to to morrow tomorrow row tomorrow morrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow After the stroke Aunt Edie struggled with tomorrow and words. We performed patience with wrapped chrysanthemums for twenty minutes each week. She lay tied up in tubes. — In much printed