Jackson

I have to admit, U2 are not what they were. They are slower, less able to stretch and risk. They have a routine. They come out wrapped in layers of production. But they will always be my band. The love is like the eye light of a time-marked woman still looking at the grizzled man Read more

Mattie Furphy House June 2012 On the path below the verandah where I sit, discreet, discrete occasional clusters, twos, fives, pass. A man exercising an unpleasant dog. A woman striding fifteen feet behind him. She projects her clauses toward his shoulderblades: “As she said, y’can get away with buying cheap shoes, but then Whammo! it Read more

The face appears as if upon a screen. The image taunts me every night in bed. The Muse personified, a handsome man with lips that all the women ache to feed. “O will you be my Muse personified and let me touch your mystery with my pen?” I warble, when, inside my errant head, the Read more

It is pool, is pull, is still sky blue. Cool as a doll, I’m limbs, I’m lungs, I’m lightly mad, must dance. Moonsuck moves it. Swirling, sluicing, slurping, slapping, fizzing, it headbutts my hips, sprays a million glinting bits of never, halts, ebbs, is silent as glass. Tiptoe-bare, I’m towelled, curled, lightly sad, must sleep. Read more