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Once Upon A Time In A Land Far Away …


After weeks of television news overdose
Don Peyote with faithful Pancho Sandoz
In basin helmet and dustbin lid cuirass
Sallies forth to tilt at windmills, sweet ass

Honey drips clogging his mental apparatus
Preventing his realising common practice
Of this era is for fictional works to make
Some pretence of being factual, like a snake

Slithering away leaving any truth to shrivel
And viewers swallowing contradictory drivel
Headless chickens with all their plugs pulled
Poor bewildered boomers waiting to be culled

Corrine, Corrina, 12-bar country blues song
“Corrine, Corrina, where you been so long?”
“I’m worrying about you, baby,” hear me sing
“Come home, Corrina, or life don’t mean a thing”

Past Fancies


Plying one another with youth
This prattle of inconsequence
Hucksters, twitching to and fro
Reinstigating further dialogue
Now you seem me, now you …

… scramble for stable geolocation in an
Imaginary empyreal fractal geometry
Recall now all those fell off the map
Who never quite made the grade
Who never ran the full course

Languishing yet in one’s mind’s eye

The Opening Eye


It’s too dangerous
Indigenous religion
Hence the “War On Drugs”
The Big Brother NSA
What if people awakened?

Scotty’s Secret Habit (A Star Trek Tanka)


“I cannae hold’ her
Captain. I think it must be
the dilithium
crystals.” “Then you shouldn’t have
taken so many, Scotty.”



For it was he
A true life brother
Who adopted
Those many years ago
A New Year’s resolution
To grow to accept
A love and acceptance
For every thing he disliked
Eggs for instance

For it was he
Who fell in love
With Ms Mary Warner
Yet was generous enough
(“kind towards others”)
(“freely giving more than is necessary
or expected”) – to share her
Alongside his wisdom
Wit and laughter

Not that I was unhappy
To share her, Ms Maya
Or Ms Dee
With him
For it was he
Was it not
Who, being accused
Of believing himself God’s gift to women
Retorted he believed women were God’s gift to him?

For it was he
Who walked his talk
Who followed the road less travelled
And was abandoned by so many
One by one by one by one
A dice man’s food
Too rich to stomach
His journey’s end a waking nightmare
Care in the Community’s hollow laugh

Precious Jules (His Mother’s Eyes)


The first time I met him he didn’t speak
His age was still being tallied in months
He had a few words, but rarely used them
Lost bush baby, he had his mother’s eyes

Perched insecurely, uncomfortably
So high up on his new father’s shoulders
Displayed like the first prize in a raffle
This braggart no more than a kid himself

One look into those eyes – his, his mother’s …
Never venture too close to a black hole
Not unless, of course, you have a death wish
Or faith you will emerge the other side

Whichever one it was I paid no heed
Became a frequent visitor, a friend
Jules and I spectators with front row seats
As they fought their love affair to a standstill

One day he was drawing something for school
“What’s that?” I asked. “It’s Jesus on the cross”
“What about this other bit over here?”
“That’s God hammering in the nails,” he said

After the showdown the council housed them
Urban highrise – graffiti and dog shit
I’d visit … His mother and I even …
Rarely saw Jules though … “Playing” with his friends

You consign some calendars to the bin
You meet new people, get married, lose touch
And then I learned, by chance almost, he’d gone
He’d been found, days later; drug overdose

Betrayed in the end by his own attempts
At finding some meaning or else escape
Or maybe just a little peace of mind
A distant echo of his mother’s eyes

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