Our woodstove

was a cranky beast

fond of smoking,

going out.

I’d sit there

beside its iron belly

and stir some chips.

If I could coax

a mean flame, I’d smile

and notch up a victory.



The anarchic mop of hair

frightful acne

an attitude

one word responses

more secrets than the military

despicable table manners

finishing all the hot water

but oh boy, we love you.


The hammer in my chest

has exercised some spell.

I hear the constant hum

of created things,

they course through my blood

expand in my head.

I have this appetite

for indecent joy,

my capillaries blaze

it is breaking my mind.


At the rough end of town

where old mercantile warehouses

give way to wharves,

I shall walk

share the air with seagulls

stare back at the rusting cranes

of dead industry

feel ever so small

against history.


She had a thing

for perfumed talc,

sprinkling it over

her throat,

standing in a dust storm

of fragrance,

crinkling her perfect nose

detangling her elegant hair,

smelling better than paradise.


All the obscure poetry

I have written,

with meanings

meant for you,

it slumbers in a dusty briefcase

shoved under my bed.

I shall incinerate it all

so its mortifying heat

rises up the chimney

scattering like unrequited love.


For a slight person

you had immense hands.

I marvelled at them,

I loved your tapering fingertips

your chewed cuticles

the way the back of your hand

was speckled with freckles.

I longed to be smothered

in the profound gravitas

of your fingers.