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Like mildew on leather I was musty with trust That antecedent Precursive verse – Of the unknown: We laughed, I was laughing Weathering busty stances A rocking horse A silhouette The shadows danced As shadows do Must settling Trust too Like angel dust On every surface.

A construct of exchange is in my pocket They say it burns a hole and so it seems It scorches the landscape of my fingers And as I deftly touch count the amount Of loose change I have for an ‘avo’ on toast’ I come across a scene you couldn’t dream of. And I realise…

A six pack of Canadians On the side of the road One can out and open He gently lays it down And straightens to walk With an uneasy swagger His tobacco red fingers On tobacco grey beard And on his face anger I grudgingly approach And our eyes meet So I nod and he smiles…

A dull day afoot on wet gravel, Tyres whisking shallow puddles, I feel a teasing warmth, Beyond thick cloud, and The crisp of the air – You are there. You are there.

She backs a boat with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, Slicing through skin that is warm, but impervious to the nervous system’s warning. And she is oblivious to the effect that this has on my all too anaesthetised heart.

I drive under Sugar Bush road Blasting songs of the unrequited And passing by the Honey Pot I flick through Spotify until  Doe Paoro sounds about right –  her pulse of rhythmic bass/  love lyrics tethering me to this place that sounds  of waves and smells of salt and dust  and tastes of long nights and…

It has been a year and 23 days since I posted. The last post was about missing my Da. He has been dead for a year and about 50 days. I have written a lot about grief before, but never before have I spent so much time in grief, and not writing. It was unexpected…

The final 70 metres, The track straight Duty free imagery Teasing me I look at her: Three days Three dozen hours Finish line: Auto reply – Leaving  

Help me say the words That she irons out the worry That was there since forever And that he never Needs to care Cos she is there.

I wish I was a stoner, because I just realised that I don’t know of a word to describe the experience of knowing a word, yet being unable to define what it means. 

It passes,  It promises, It gives rise to – And rules it all out. It bastardises the truth, And resets all the rules, It plays havoc with hearts, Messes with our minds, And wreaks of the inevitable: Until so relentless is it’s rhythm  That we all fall in line behind it.

Whatever led me here Gave me Tofu Gyoza Miso and Sylvia Plath Grateful fodder. 

We talk in memes/ Speak in tweets No tongue  All talk And busting At the seams

The menu read all smashed, all Super Salad with Acai. The coffee was a sour roast, the type of inhouse shit I hate. The men were bearded, staff and customers.  They postured and peacocked against well placed mirrors –  Those wall lengthers, adjacent to the stools with no footing.  The stools people try for a…

‘Thawed’ when you were never frozen is not the word, But it encapulates a simple moment, so I have heard: That moment when you melt, but form a solid- In the place of one gaseous mess of all things horrid.