Jackson

From the roof of the flats on East Street I can see the ships in the harbour and on the sea lined up, coming and going and waiting. All night from my futon lying on the nylon carpet in the ground floor flat on East Street I can hear the cranes unloading the stuff from… Read more

25 August 2012 There was almost a fight at Perth Poetry Club today but it wasn’t cool it wasn’t funny Some poor kid He’s at least 50 probably older but he doesn’t get it He calls me a stupid bitch a lesbian Not for the first time I wish I was Later Chris reads Steve’s… Read more

Your faded black trousers look like charred treetrunks. Your eyes are like shy leaves. Above them floats your white hair, like a vague afternoon moon. I put my hand on yours: rough bark. You breathe slowly: wind in dry branches. You say something: a crow or a saw. You’re a still man in a stirred-up… Read more

This year I won’t stand under the railway bridge when the trains are going across, she said, even though it thrills me so, the adrenaline secret of the huge metal body roaring above me. This year I won’t, won’t, she said, because every time I do it, the thrill is a little smaller, the thrumming… Read more

yoga, said the teacher, translating a sutra,      is the mind      focused      on one      thing      alone fingers on keys eyes on screen      thoughts      in the breaths      that make a      thing      a poem First published in foam:e Read more