Jackson

(found poem: Paul Harrison’s September titles (go there & scroll down past the poems to see the original)) And Life in the Abstract and what make sense of this or mock it well-read hmas ovens (or oberon king of the fairies) wake some of the better, unknown, small press poets you … drinking my medicine Read more

if you are an arm I will be a gauntlet      black and magenta lace      your skin still visible      your hand still free and if you are a head I will be the hat      adorning      your nebular eyes and if you are a coat I will be the back but if you are boots I will Read more

Onstage the panel host, a young woman (dyed blonde waves, strappy top that she periodically adjusts), adores (with exposed wrists, pressed-out lips, uptipped chin, crossed ankles) three awkward, scruffy, peculiar, camp old men Read more

I dreamed I fucked Mick Jagger     Lips & all It wasn’t nice He fucked like a malfunctioning vibrator and his cock was so small, the condom was loose He didn’t like me digging my nails into his back, probably because I didn’t mean it He had no idea how to make me come Sorry Mick Read more

On the train, standing tall Black hair, soft spikes above, cleancut below Sunglasses Cleanshaven big-dick chin Black t-shirt, blue jeans, black suede shoes Old leather Quiksilver bag, lowslung like Dee Dee Ramone’s bass He doesn’t see me staring He gets off at Bassendean Damn Read more

In my secret garden there are vegetables with peculiar names, strange shapes and foreign heritage; twisted herbs whose leaves and buds are functional in particular situations; fruits that are an acquired taste; contorted bruise-coloured blooms. I love and love and love them all, talk to them, irrigate them, reconfigure their habitats, fertilise them, preserve their Read more