Monthly Archives: February 2014


This foal


I shall keep this foal

beside me

not used up

like women prone to love


I shall let the

midnight of its fur

hide me

the way this house does

wrapped tight in

the walls of my own medina


I shall walk alone

and walk at

night time only






And then it comes



Then it comes

I am the insane mouth

you kiss at night

between pillows

and moths

as we pretend

we are not waiting


You are the chase of cars

the shoots in snow

and a chandelier less sinister

than the stairs

drawn with graffiti

on which I am told

I must stand


And these leaves of skin

wiping the undertow

of love

about your ankles

and me here

asking why


Imagining you imagining it

Imagining you imagining it



Imagine the universe

As a giant brain

Imagining you

Imagining it …


platform 10

platform 10


If it wasn’t for those cutthroat priests

the flip side would have been the right side: the

last escapee from Pablo Escobar’s zoo not caught

in the foyer of the Excelsior, a rhino if

I remember correctly, or was it a leopard? Pray God

about creatures, that Creation let them roam free, not

caged for gawking at.

Looking down

on us: the collective eye of ten thousand chattering

starlings getting ready to roost on the roof

of the Lucknow train station. Which reminds me: have

you seen the new Bollywood hit Love King Murder? – that

scene where they’re listening to Death’s ting-a-ling? Bring

it on, whatever it is – another seven minute war with

its big air where quick-smart you get told don’t

Bogart that joint (rifle barrel), consideration

for others. If I had my druthers I’d dodge these

kill fellows & run with the cowards.


get emergency? – for time, for portion of, dusk

yields prayer emanating from correct posture in

no-harm place, never too late for the start of making

sweet sleep, a bed that makes clothes mock.

Thrown off

for body worship? At last a healing place? – Radio Noir’s

chattering to settle us? No, this is a war place, healing’s

(hearing’s) over yonder on platform 10 where, wild & blue,

they’re tuning in to Death’s ting-a-ling.



February 7, 2014

I met him in a bar.

I met him in a bar.


When I was 14 I truanted school
With my friend & a .22

His bicycle had a puncture
(but he had the .22)

I rode ahead & leaned on a pole
Gave him the finger

Then a bullet sighed between me
& the pole –

I crawled along a creek bed
Dragged my bike

Years later I met him in a bar
He was living off the earnings

We got drunk we were mates
Woke in a lane with a pocket of notes

Don’t know where they came from
Gave it to a derro

He died ten years ago I heard tonight
Still that bullet grazes the pole


dancing together

dancing together




Stop with me now, in this moment.

Here we are, you and I, writer and reader

bound together in an eternal timeless embrace.

It doesn’t matter if you are reading this in faded handwriting

on the wall of some historical exhibition about poets long dead

or on a technological device that allows the words

to float like a hologram in the space in front of you.

It doesn’t matter how the poem is reaching you –

if it is reaching you, I have you in my arms

and you have me in yours and for this eternal moment

we are dancing together.

Only in the distance can we hear

the soft sad music of time reminding us that

this waltz, though timeless, cannot last forever.



(new Flying Islands Pocketbook launched in Hong Kong last night)

like a rush hour train

like a rush hour train

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