time perfume

my hands are pungent

cupping my face

I inhale

golden ochre fills me

my heart

a newly forming bowl on the wheel

moistened now by the rich echo of a smell I can taste

forming still…

I lick my hand and drive my time machine

back to 1978

a hot summer with brittle trees against a friendly blue sky

a far lighter blue than that of the bike I couldn’t ride

the water is almost gone and toads langor there

toxic and lumpy and lazy with peace

but OH they make us squeal

why do my hands feed to me that day now?

all clean and grown

I do langor like a toad though

breathing through nostrils that flare over thick lips of clay

memories move under my nails

like watercolour

reminding me of my birthday watch


and the way Harriet snapped at the black mongrel

who DARED poke his nose beneath her tail….

maybe that’s when I dropped my watch

in the mud

by the dam

under grass

taller than me

salty feet

do apples move?

they roll from palm to palm

be an apple

with skin to lick and pierce

with crisp flesh that parts


like an apple in the bath

or on the sea

bobbing between

my salty feet

to contain

so soft are the edges

that boil and slide

inside the copper

a sweet fragrance

like sugar or moist tobacco

begging your tongue

to heat it

to bravely risk stringent addiction

tasting and….


like a wild snake

coiling intelligence

looping and falling


to swell in gravy waves

grasping the rim like a mouth

or fingers

to wander like an octopus

free my heart

to wild and gilded


perhaps so hot it will fall through

unwelcome molten love

thickly sweating holes

into things

you thought were real


I open







wiser and wiser

The experiencer

I am the experiencer

necromancer too

wizard of the sky

my feet are curved like moons

I taste the surface of this earth

or my imagination

portaling through

dissolution death

seated in soft blooms


flying inside

spread eagled in my sphere

following the crows

on course

to blue star

heart music

a snaky illumination

a shimmering song

a magnetic tune

falling through my body

filling and rolling my throat

I give birth

an orange large and juicy

shining over billowing thighs

and now

I balance

upon my golden navigation tool

reflect upon me

bouncing through this sweaty life

soft skin of face against your rough sprouting chest

following the blue note

underneath my breast


The Perfect Game

hours I spent with my cheek against your spirit

smoothing the walls

of a private utopia

a summer of thought

sweet like balloons of sugar

mouthful of music

sometimes a note that matched my heart

claiming me

with words like sacred and heat


back from the platform in his throat

where I sat waiting

blowing down the vagus tunnel

oh I had a nerve

I felt his irrational glare like a flaying of crumpled skin

so ancient

adhered thoroughly

scraping away

with kerosine and lime

it animated him

you know

his fear

it wriggled and bubbled and tried to smile

heartless in truth

delivered on a sharp edge

an excluded mind acting alone


defending himself against consumption

I saw my pain on his face

I sat thoughtfully and recognised myself

I was braced

I was brave

back to back with his mother

and her

the she in he who stood tall with her gun

and yet there I was like a photograph torn at the edges

spread like honey

projected and hot

then curled like a ball of inflamed infant

on the platform in his throat

tightly clasped with grand miserly fingers

painted red

but I am a man he says sticking his dick out.


but do you love your penis darling, really love it

the way it should be loved

with all of you

be there when you touch it and soon you will come

to know yourself…

I swept me over with a fine tooth comb

willing fresh change

releasing our agreement

the agreement to love



this purpose is warming

the perfect game

a ritual quest

for true ecstasy

flowing with it

the love





le sucre le plus doux

to feel it sweeeeeep

like a flying wasp

beautiful and bold

hovering above my bed

eyeing me thoughtfully

a virtue of vibration

sprinkling by

gold upon my pinkened cheek

promise of liberation



exquisite pain


a downward swoop

wild laughing

out of almost nowhere

brushing me dangerously

causing a swell of squeal

to bubble up with other singing

and crystal

in a sound bath of intensity

and ooooooo…..O




but only

just beginning to

fill my eager pillow



le sucre le plus doux

merging stars

you are like an elixir

and we are merging stars

in one stolen breath at 8.24

abandon to beautiful

then hours of sweet alone


stretched and alive

quiet but for the soaring song of birds

and the sound of worship

pushing from my body in waves of deep base invitation

softly stroking ancient pain

meeting myself in a dark alley

the alchemy of blending stars

making new light


gone magic me

hold me in your crumbling arms

I am nothing

perfumed and placating

slide me through the dust

momentary corner smile on red heart face


gone magic me

breathspark particles

release from nowhere


his pipe

is damp

non existent pipe

relief into black

psychedelic portals in holographic space suit

wild number 4

silver and naked

imprinted on mass

conference of flesh

marking randomly


tattoo of increasingly wilder dreams

I surrender


moving shaping


charred hands relax

crumble and pour

flooding eyes with

terrible ghosts stitches and masks

in my mirror

dead child celebrating temporary


hidden under skeptical


pretending naivety from cube of thorough console




switching off light

and leaving

gone magic me


take off your makeup

and your clothes

rid yourself

of fear that clutters

your god’s markmaking

slough off the murky bitter

the security blankets that shroud you

like oppression

like religion

kick the habit

wear your skin like the fucking fleshly vestment that it is

pay tribute to your creative force

the life painter

the lover who kisses

moment after moment after precious endless moment

proud of the time it took to reach now

feeling you exquisitely

from the inside

Silver Poetry

All That Glitters Is Not Gold

Unfettered BS

it is all just bullshit anyway.....


Your Brain is a Radio that Does What its Told

Post Scriptum Poets

Haikus Senryus and Tankas about anything and everything

InkBlots and IceBergs

musings on life | bits of psychology | attempts at poetry

This and That

In other countries individuals go to jail and/or die for weblogging. While the bulk of this country makes the internet an extention of T.V.


Scripting the desires that are soul deep

Cosmos Reflection

poetry that speaks to you

Africa Zwelibanzi

The Poetry Monarch.

Jeffrey Pillow

Life, death, and everything in between

Purple Haze

Darkness, delusion, smeared with a stick of butter and laughter. Words collide, they bring forth death!

The Lonely Author

Pain goes in, love comes out.

The Realm

well, come on in. bite. chew. spit.

SouL SpeakS

He started Writing, The paper started speaking...

%d bloggers like this: