Stop Trying to Make Sense of This (Life)

At the entrance to the train station,

a Jehovah’s witness one side,

a Morman at the other,

both trying to save my soul,

one booklet at a time,

while emails fly in to my pocket

offering better interest rates

and great deals on airfares.


The news tells me

that a virus is spreading

and floods have replaced the fires,

I guess the blood dimmed tide

has indeed been loosed,

and innocence replaced

by ignorance.


But if you try the impeach the guilty,

who are racked not with remorse

but a nuclear sense of entitlement,

then I’ll refer you back to distract;

soul to soul, airfares

and interest rates.


Unattributed moulding fixed to wall near Central Station, Sydney, NSW, Australia, 9 June 2015.

Look on the bright side,

we’re all bound to die.

Then ask yourself a question,

what will you leave behind?

It’s easier to be a churchgoer

than a good Christian.



In the Death Mask of John Keats

The Keats-Shelley House, Rome

Piazza di Spagna, 26, 00187 Roma RM, Italy


In the death mask of John Keats

there appears a resigned peace,

as if poetry had finally let him rest,

his last poem whispered in his last breath.


Now I stand in his room beside the Spanish steps,

looking out at life from his room of death,

watching tourists walk by without a thought

that once, here, lay John Keats, poet.


And I consider the fate of a nameless grave,

or worse, a life of wasted days,

but what a beautiful death if you can say

you did what you needed to do,

and said what you needed to say.