Jackson

the bush smells        sweet and wet the coffee smells        perfect the river smells        of mud and marron the sky smells of stars        and the grass        smells of grass. First published in Pixel Papers Read more

Was that what happened when you were born? Was there a census of moonbeams, did quiet night counting slide you into existence? And when you learned to walk did they film you with moonbeams? Child of children, did you fall among flowers and fools? When you came here to learn how to live with moonbeams… Read more

My mystical dark-haired dream phantom with eyes of amethyst skin of chalk muscles of a stallion and voice of a stripped and polished emotion— My mystical dark-haired dream phantom are you meditating now as you sit flickering on your bright strewn floor among Western shapes and Oriental colours? Are you beckoning now as you pass… Read more

She who is a thief thinks darkly. Think darkly: a stranger comes. Think quickly: a stranger comes. Hide in motion: a chaser comes. An elevator, a corridor, a room of children … We are away, we got away, here are gifts: Think darkly: these are stolen goods. Read more

I tried to get rid of my dreams but they wouldn’t leave. They hung around, nagging, soliciting, distracting. Where are you my solid mind? My logical hemisphere? Come give me a hand here. I tried to shrug off my mood but it clung. It shrouded me, hissing, clouding, drifting. Where are you my no-nonsense side?… Read more

He has a way about him. He is a hand-drill, quiet and direct. He is a coiled spring and he knows exactly how many coils he has. He is discrete. Quantified. Minimal. Precise. He smiles, precisely, at the right time. He is never verbose. Sometimes, I suppose, he must get wet, sloppy, amoebic. Sometimes, I… Read more