Is there a story to tell?

The fear of a void in my writing biography
slowly opening up
 every day the wound grows, it howls a little

still nothing there
nothing to fill the baby bird's vacant mouth
 no words of living flesh

perhaps this hunger growl will do
perhaps this amplification of emptiness
 suffices for a meal for today

infinite jest, or 'there is a plan'

 an open wardrobe.. pieces of time fly
fly past my eye,
she said
"f'off" and sighed

a water canon goes off
into a glass half empty. no no no.
 no no no

the best ideas
are attributed to gods
but gods don't merely
exist

our ephemeral
nuisance lives
buzzin into their eyes
 spoilt with creation

the inverse perfection
is no perfection
until in verse

it crushes us
like wasps
between leathery lips

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the ant trails running discourses to the edge of the ocean
fabulous planes crash in millennial colours across wide deserts
the girl in the black jeans knocks the wineglasses spinning
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the goat herd leads the beards into the yellow stone temple
a new computer sucks air in an empty room calculating infinity
the truth is incompatible with the truth: a light-speed time bomb
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the bicycle is dragged from the river dressed with dark reeds
all through the city a fine mist of snow is falling on parked cars
an overture is recorded in the lineaments of her tired hands
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a curse is unrolling like a cloud over succulent stinging trees
the heat is rising in the refrigerator - but all this is passing
last night the poet floated high above a clear lake in a strange land
the poet always floats in dreams, as a balloon on a cut string, free to-
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good thing i forgot my scarf.

despair despair, the floods, the floods are rising
despair the naysayers, despair the fools who rule in ignorance
despair for our children, despair for our planet in ruin
tear out your hair, ye who are blind, claw out your unseeing eyes
despair despair for our ark, our home, is sinking
our civilisation is beyond repair, despair despair..

∀

little pill
a dream opens -
capital 'A' blasted on my mind

and upside down - an ox head
is turned in the sky
venus retrogrades into the calling void

far away a cup
and saucer
fly into my eye

a piece of maggot wriggling
down the maginot line
drawn slowly on a thread across the tumbling fields

now stones spike the ground
at carnac - and down tor
the evil internet drinking up our brain

fast story - a glisten moment
plastic underwear
goat harvest arguent arduino

rodeohead pyramid song
the 4 -3 3- 4 the sphynx
the modest bismuth noticed by oliver sacks

i like to think like bruce lacey
the technique is to not trust logic
logic is a fool's tool

unchain the plane and linear track
and join the life game effortlessly like joining a dance
or threading a needle

the chance that you might hit the spot
is higher if you follow
the nodding clock-faced hero -wat?

i can see an image
it is under everything today
something to do with - ah, impossible to say

the green giant awakening
a blue death screen on some future computer
the sparks of an accident

the voices of hundreds - thousands
a light - a light
the thread of eyes linked end to end

the glowing daisy chain
of jellyfish stingers
going back to the burgess shale

on this path
on this track our boots have walked
the fittest did not always survive

if you want to out-maneuver your history
you have to listen very carefully
to the piper's call - ∀ (for all)

poet rebel

the idea is all that counts
the body is transient -
that is the idea anyway

you can kill this body
you can kill all the bodies you want
the idea will wait

the idea will wait
dormant through 1000 years
under the tyrant's deep-freeze

but as soon as the lid is removed
the sun hits it - and pow!
baby ideas spawning in a hundred poet brains

a poetic brain is the fertile earth
the idea is the seed
nothing else is there to need - but the word

the word must also be tended
do not forget the word -
it's all the ammunition we've got!

vale burra park trees

stroke the attic of the valley soul
you old wizened things
bitten by many frosts, you
measured the echo of a bat and ball's 'clock'
(that friendly chime)

the old-timers and their dray
flattened the soil at your feet
scraped the hard clay away
raised the three pillared shrine
(and had a good-o time)

your bark like barnacles on a bomber
sunk into the coral bed
the fuselage torn and twisted
by a century's hands and now today
(the waxy smell of fresh sawn pine)