Jackson

I dreamed a gun like Dirty Harry’s, a Magnum, phallic silvercoloured barrel I dreamed a gun and a lock A lock on a blank room where I had to hide the gun A lock on a blank room with an ancient drawer full of other people’s junk where I had to hide the gun We… Read more

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

I would make a mirror from whatever I have, so that you can see that you are not broken, that there is nothing to fix, that you are not a machine, to be utilised or left to rust— that, as I have told you before, you are a living tree. Today it seems to me… Read more