pill popping

the dr. prescribes the latest pills

– one in the morning

– one at night

good for the heart

           age deflates

the balloon of youth

& immortality


I used to take my pills

from bathroom doctors,

prescriptions for

psychedelic meditation,

but now the doc says –

you’ve mapped the road

of excess, now

I pronounce you

heaven & hell,

you may kiss the ride,

the white rabbit done died.


now the CT map says you are here

blood thinners & α-blockers,

taken with a glass of water

           & a grain of salt.

Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 4, May 2012

Make Love, Not Warhol


Inspired by Ric Burns’ Andy Warhol: A Documentary Film.


The phonies are taking over,

the Jesus t-shirts

& ketchup stains.


Do you want me to tell you

who Andy was?

A mirror holder?


You move to the edge

& declare it the centre.

But now we throw hammers

at our reflections,

shattering silver thoughts.


Now the centre has been

cemented & secured –

trapped in a kaleidoscope

of commercial migraines,

the neon swirling like

an acid breast milk shake.


I’d film you sleeping

but that is now just

life / work / everyday.


If we slow 24 to 16

frames per second and

take time to

see like a child?


Do you remember when

movies used to amaze?

*time – subject – film – light*


Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 4, May 2012

The Sound of an Actual Man

The devil is in the detail,

in the teeth of violent dreams,

revealed in photospasms of the past,

of departures laden with lazy promise.


Do you remember strawberry fields?

Lines like lies crossing tees

& dotting eyes,

lost in a visceral ineptitude,

sending sonar pulses through

a darkened history.


We are the soldiers in Sgt. Pepper’s band,

cursing the silence in

between the songs,

dancing in a frantic haze &

boom boom ricochet,

paying prayer for a

slow motion replay.

Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 4, May 2012


Final Resting

.            Inspired by the photo “Badly Parked” by Paul Michael Jackson


Years rust like dreams.


The chrome has yielded to the air

and holes are where the lights

once lit the dark path.


The shell once new

and full of laughter;

children bouncing on spring seats,

mum in her Christian Dior copy,

dad’s cigarette smoke

filling the cabin.


All the trips;

to the grandparents,

the beach,


mum going shopping,

dad playing golf.


Now it rests on the edge,

creaking its last days

guarded by gums.


Published in Rabbit Poetry Journal, Issue 3, March 2012


Image “Badly Parked” ©2005 Paul Michael Jackson