January 4th, 2015


Still not over that death


Dead in the desert. Vultures peck you clean
sun-leathered flesh. Mice ants pick off the rest.
White bone a while. A desert wind for jest
drifts sand until there's no sign you have been.

Sand grinds you into sand. And memory
will know you not. You may provoke a tear
grit under eyelid. And we know some year
last book will burn. Last city fall to sea.

Kismet. But fight it, each hour every day,
scrawl name on monument, leave brass in past.
Curse the erasers. Great words will outlast
piffle and bigotry, or so we pray -

If not eternal, longlived. They would rob
that one small thing, who do the vulture's job.

To cheer myself up

anteater-nighthawks_00391314NIGHTHAWKS WITH TAPIR

It's that same damn noir bar. The coffee's hot
though foul. The juke-box swallows my last dime
plays what I didn't ask for half the time.
Some damn saxophonist. I'm really not

happy he brings me here.The window's smashed.
The place is gone to hell. Or are those cracks?
Some giant spiderweb? Can't say it lacks
its own strange ambiance. The stools are slashed

or maybe clawed. The barman's getting old
and almost skeletal. I wear this dress
each time we come here. No-one could care less.
That cock is tiny. Or perhaps it's cold.

I've not been flashed before by a tapir.
Perhaps I'll let him bring me back next year.

A productive evening, though I should be working on the novel


I've tried to find a cool and tactful way
to get you off my case. Perhaps to send
Callimachus's works, just like a friend
would do. I've been obsessed with this all day.

His family were founders of Cyrene;
he conquered poetry. You'd like his stuff
Perhaps, though in your work you play so rough.
I know you've tried to stitch me up. I've seen

your verses whistle past me. And they miss
their target every time. You try in vain.
In vain I try to charm you. It's a pain.
Apparently you hate me. I'll say this.

About your satires I don't give a fuck.
Have some of mine. You'd better learn to duck.