big fish


Having survived past the teeth

And tumbled, confused, in panic

Down the slimy throat beneath,

I now reside in this organic

Heaving place of strange smells

Divorced from stormy seas

(No different from monks in cells

Sequestered, bereft of keys).


Far below where digestions ensue,

Strange soft wet sounds are made

Which offers me the clue

It=s a place I should evade,

Full of destructive chemistries.

I will hang my hat up here

And avoid the organic mystery

That keeps this whale in gear.


I must, of necessity, subsist

On seaweed and raw fish –

Not much else. This is the gist

Of my nourishment. I would wish,

At least once more, to taste

A crust of dry fresh bread.

This seems of small chance.

I must exercise my jaws, be fed

Upon whatever that huge maw grants.


Within these soft pulsating walls

I live by touch in dark gloom.

Sometimes faintly, I hear seabird calls.

I have small future to presume.

I sketch my thoughts on black designed.

I wonder on a Deity who could

Drop me to dark dungeon consigned.

Have I been so thoroughly ungood?


Ah well! I wonder now my destination.

Will I live my life whale encased,

Chewing octopus in endless mastication?

Or shall I tumble inward to be erased

And incorporated into this beast,

No more to view tilled fields and the sky.

I would hope my God would grant, at least,

His reasons for this grotesque end.  Please, why?




New York Subway



If I entwined my hair with flashing light,

Inscribed my forehead bright with fire red

Diagrams of curves and clouds to bring to sight

The cavorting shapes moving in my head;

If I dyed my ears blue, drew a banana on my nose,

Placed between my lips a round glass eye,

Hung each armpit with a yellow rose,

Strung glass bells inside my thigh

To titillate my genitals and tinkle

On arousal, wound ribbons out of gold

Around my calves to curl and crinkle

As I strolled into the subway crowd, bold

In all my manic glory, perhaps a face or two

Might glance my way, dismiss this clown

And return to puzzle out the clue

For ten across, maybe six down.


Ghost Story



The biggest difference is the light.

The Moon now penetrates my flesh.

My bones are glass against the night,

My blood and veins glisten in a mesh

To delineate my frame.

My whole world is not the same.


I pass through walls as through a mist.

Trees and plants are my solidity.

I can touch them – they resist

And form the limit of my reality.

All else is vapour – people, animals and artifacts.

I am reduced to vegetable contacts.


Every moment my mind requests,

“Why am I here in ghostly guise,

What superbeing jests

With me in this state?” But surmise

Gives no solution why I survive

Any more than those alive.


Spectres are, I suspect, quite rare.

I thought I spotted someone last year.

I ran to see.  No one was there.

I waited days for him to re-appear.

It is a lonely thing – to be a ghost,

To be kind of alive – almost.


I try to talk to people, children, beasts.

They retreat in fear – speed away.

Or else, in horror, cry out for priests.

So I sit alone at night, come what may.

I watch the Moon and stars, contemplate

This odd afterlife, watch fireflys, speculate.






There are rains that drag fog skirts

Across the country-side in stealthy hiss,

That, gently, in determination

Dampens down the grass with sodden kiss

Of sky to earth as caring as a mother

Calms her resting child.

There are rains of panicked horses’ hooves

That illuminate their stampede

With angry lightning flashing on black roofs

While trees sway and shudder in dismay

And water demons pound on window panes.

But some rains come and merely sit

And drum in steady patient siege,

Work soft hammers on the dents and wrinkles of the day

Smoothing anger and distress to flat peace,

Tempt shy dreams to peek from hidden thoughts

And welcome in safe surrender to sleep’s release.




This tangled net of vertices and lines

Conveys an occult message to require

A realignment into new confines

Within which time and space perform their gyre.

This shadow of a shadow of a form

Proffers a path where mind can only squirm

And twist and brace itself against the norm

In hopes to bring maturity to term.

Once concept frees itself to search again

The underpinnings of all structured thought,

The mind can soar out from its cosmic pen

Wherein reason remains enjailed and caught.

This egg of rectilinearity

Is pregnant with omniscient clarity.


Workshop Report



Hello God. This small contraption

I have built with brown feathers,

Bones out of toothpicks, adaption

Of its function to all environments,

Hot or cold, dry, moist or wet.

It runs on breadcrumbs, grain or bugs,

Anything around that it can get.

It’s a small but neat addition

To your fourth day zoo.

I’ll get back to work

On your giraffe, not much more to do.

Our workshop’s almost completed

All the rest.  The planet Earth

Is pretty set.  I think we’ve done

The job.   Announce the birth

Of a new place for life. I

Named it sparrow. It recalls

Other jobs done.  Give it an eye.

Tell me if it flies or falls.


Blake Update



Tiger, tiger, burning bright

Liked a striped electric light,

What cosmic electrician

Switched you into your ignition?


Who computed all your chips,

Clipped your leads with His snips?

Soldiered joints, welded braces,

Riveted component cases?


Who installed electric motors,

Plotted circuits, spun your rotors,

Figured out your fuel sources,

Pared away all remorses ?


What prototype or model shop

Glued your parts with divine glop,

Sprayed your hide with orange stripes,

Fitted in digestive pipes?


Tiger, tiger, burning bright

With a fierce neon light,

Does your eating up your fill

Pay your huge electric bill?