Category: Poetry

I tried to take it slow

Being careful not to touch too much,
it neatly lies in line and order.
Ready as I’ll ever be.
Perhaps you’ll note the efforts made.

I wonder if you’ll see me first,
if you’ll be in that army-green jacket,
boots and shorts…
and instantly I’m lost to thoughts
of smooth legs and pressing hips,
of kisses on your smiling lips,
that I may well be the luckiest guy,
and intend the chance to not be wasted,
turning on the charm and chatter,
begging you to look at me
in that way
so I know it’s okay to draw my hand,
course it through the narrows,
and wrap about your waist.
Begin to taste the sharp inhales,
anticipating a clumsy rush
and mindful pause,
to take it in.

To us, we move as if in water,
slowly pushing through the deep,
but to all others it must look like fire,
twisting into knotted towers,
sparking at the edges,
burning at both ends.



Am I in the windowpane,
or are you there in mine?
Who decides what’s in, what’s out,
or where to draw the line?

Better put, we’re all beside
and caught between dividers,
put there by the kind that find
we’re better off outsiders.


I’m on the cusp of freedom,
but it’s one left-turn from losing faith,
falling hard for hopelessness,
like young, obsessive love,
wasting in the waters,
wallowing while grinning,
a drunk slur melting my expression,
revelling in ruminance.

This pity too is one deep breath
from the imminent escape,
the blatant understanding that there’s no such thing as fate,
unless we take the concept to be nothing in itself,
the story you have written, given to your younger self,
impossibly told back to you, before you had begun,
and begin you must, it waits for none, it has begun,
it has begun.

Mr Relax

Mr Relax
brim, trim, slim, a grin
as if a whisper flown
and sewn into our skins.
It wins us over, and over,
and over,
this. bliss
hiss and kiss the coals,
souls turn to him before eyes –
wide at the centre,
tied to let enter
and paddle in their pupils.

Myself? I can’t stand the man,
preferring to hold too tightly to little,
than letting the lot wash over,
wash through,
wash me clear and clean of identity
that long I’ve left to grow like mold
in my cupped hands, in my clasped hands,
both dark and damp environments for fear to grow,
and convince you that it’s medicine;
too sick to even understand the prison that it puts you in…

I’m listening. I’m giving in.
I feel my smile-lines deepening.
I know that I’d be happier if only I weren’t grimacing,
and trying so damn very hard
to carve each pebble on the path.


Let me tell you who I am,
and what I do –
if they’re distinct? –
then you can make up your own mind
if you’re living true;
being me, in you.
An early bird, I feed the dogs,
and head on down to an empty gym,
enjoying the absurdity of exercise at dawn,
finishing my workout before you’ve even woken up.

A pot of coffee on the go, I catch up on the news,
rifling through my email, making notes so not to lose
the feel for how the day will play, and pander to my goals,
so by the time I enter in, I’m prepped for all the roles.

It’s after five, but not yet six, I wrap up to head home;
I use the walk to file and form the things I’ve come to know.
We walk the dogs, we cook up food, we catch up on our days,
we wonder about the future, or we roll about in play,
or find ourselves absorbed in tasks, and all can be okay;
variety forms edges to our long-extended stay
upon, within, beside this earth – for which we shall adventure,
and document through artful means
that long outlive our tenure,

so that we may be remembered by the art we leave behind;
impressions of the time we took to organize the mind.