Make Believe We’ve Solved Everything


maybe we can get together for coffee
I can throw up all over you
and the little china cups, and cream, and tablecloth

you can sit there covered in bile
and tell me a story about somebody
you used to know

you can feel like you’re helping
it’ll be good for you
I’ll feel better for a while, knowing I
helped you out a bit
but your look is still sad

you’ll get the check, and I won’t fight
we’ll hug, and say fantastic things


“Call me anytime”
“I’m always here for you”
“I wish you well”

and then
I can go back to eating poison

and longing
for someone to care


the return.

hushed warble uttered
your lowest point
your most susceptible
moment’s self doubt
cannot match that pitied yowl’s echo
loosed from tongue and throat
the time
hour chime sounds
the hallway’s grandfather clock
you know
for the first time
for certain
and without doubt
your love will not
be returning
from the edge

another in a long line of failures

a man feels guilt
for his rage and words
which came as roars of infantile fury

a man sees himself not a man
and feels shame

a boy he is now
loose as dead leaves
which the breeze
plucks with lightest touch
to cast adrift

a boy hangs his head
kicking the sand at his toe
as though it will move the world
and undo the damage done

he looks to a girl
who is a woman
a goddess, queen and wolf-lord

she raged
of course, that’s what she does

a woman swells like a squall
to topple boats
and a boy became toppled so

he was not strong enough for her
he failed

I saw the master at the mill today

From glory told by gold upon his wall
and silk which lay across his fair bride’s lap
by halls which make his daughter’s laughter ring
and by the tales of past exploits we sing.

This master to whom masses all have bowed
Whose fist and foot has dazzled man and boy
Inspired mirth and pride from many crowd
And caused the city’s heart to swell with joy

Oh master, have you fallen on hard times?
Why is your face begrimed with lowly dirt?
What labour causes bend along your spine?
What causes sweat and tears to stain your shirt?

Oh master, pain that echoes from your eyes
Is not from broken bone or mangled limb
It’s from the loss of all the heart doth prize
It’s from the emptiness that’s haunting him.

musings upon her funeral dress

These garments are like a tightly packed row of
dehydrated, deflated and hung up front to back.
Each item was her in a mode, a mood, a moment
in time
each was chosen by her to reflect the parts of her
personality most vibrant and attractive in times
when she felt brave.
They all began as simply wares on sale,
sterile and lacking a history and association.
I wouldn’t give a care for any of them
although I might have found them
eye-catching because of their colour
but they would hardly stir inside me
any fondness, not on their own, not any moreso
than any configuration on display at
H&M or Winners or the lot,
slapped and stretched over
plastic, faceless mannequins.
These clothes here in her closet
they were no different:
they began on a mannequin, on a
plastic person with no soul or agenda,
just textiles and dye and thread,
stitched up, ironed and branded
by some company like Billabong
– she really liked Billabong,
even though she never cared for brands
and she certainly didn’t fit their target crowd
of surfers and boarders.
She never surfed in her life.
Now she never would.
Would never try and find out if she enjoyed it,
if she would master it,
incorporate it into her lifestyle.
Who knows?
Maybe, eventually, her hobbies would
reflect her favourite clothes.
I doubt it.
She wasn’t a surfer.
That’s not the point.
She could have been,
she had the option,
life still held that fate as possible.
It doesn’t now, that’s the point.
It does for me, though.
Maybe I should take up surfing.
For her.
What good would that do for her?
She’s dead.