I no longer had the power of truth in my eyesight

Flicking through canopies of fallen trees

Abiding by the color of the magazine, making amends

With the wind, howling soundlessly just outside

The memory of your warmth that attached to me

Strong as Jim Beam on the rocks

And floating

I no longer had the power of movement in my feet

Sucking on promises of shrinking spacetime

That you will inevitably want of me

Soon, so very soon

I can’t tell myself it can’t be done

I still hold the picture of you imprinted on my temporal lobe

And so I am enthralled

And so I leave you

As paralyzed leafs hush your gentle tap-tapping away



The floor is incomplete,

The air is incomplete,

The smile of a Cuban woman selling vegetables at the corner of the street is incomplete,

The thought is incomplete,

The riding to work is incomplete,

The coming back home is cruelly incomplete,

The feeling of mild satisfaction is incomplete,

The reassuring presence of common sense is incomplete,

The shopping list is incomplete,

The night is incomplete,

The sleep is incomplete,

The waking is incomplete,

The evening out, drinking is incomplete,

The handing in of assignments is incomplete,

The talking to friends is incomplete,

The lack of somebody watching Glee, Good Wife actually hurts,

The reading is incomplete,

The song is incomplete,

The frustration at general stupidity of people is incomplete,

The frustration at particular stupidity of oneself is incomplete,

The writing of poems in secret is incomplete,

The incipient measuring of ideas is incomplete,

Those tears are incomplete,

Perception is incomplete,

Reflection is incomplete,

The family is incomplete,

Life is incomplete,

Because you’re not here.

Come to me.

Consent simmers like grass under your breath

ebullient as the crow in the morning who flees

pernicious battles, out of spite not fear, not

the high priests of compunction, prudently clad

in thick hides.


Tasted salt of the sea, salt of the earth,

glistening crystals turned to eyes that see and are seen,

allusions of dignified resistance heavy as lashes and wings

never spoil a contest (or is it conquest).

Assent is ascent. Ancient, acidic and steep. And sweet.

Like a pinprick with which winds tested my resolve,

when someone else was me. But no more

should you be ashamed of your vaingloriousness,

than I of kissing your neck, that flows like a balanced wine

in a rotund sacredness of glass.


Sighs are the coin now, no doubt.

Let us sigh the years to sleep.

I am extremely happy to be able to accept this award. I’d also like to nominate Seabell for next edition.

“Abandonment” was said.

I picked words from you as ripe

And bursting as cherries and

I also watched the beside-the-table

Where you used to take your seat and

Made a small cut in time

So the past could sap your

Presence. Meantime is where we

Dwelt. Moon-time is the air

We inhaled, that a balcony has formidably


A mutilated siren of your weeping

Precedes me to the hospital of loss.

This is where nurses have soothing names

And talk of gentle blood, giggling.

I sit, my far flung gaze like a limping dachshund

Confining its world to saccadic barking,

…I, Here, Now, I, Here, Now, Now, Now…!

The solipsism of intellect

Deprived of green trees, white brooks and yellow thunders,

Doorknobs, letters and steering wheels.

So I sat, “there” was the only signification

That world had not disappeared.

All because there was someone

And then there was no-one anymore.

“It is important

to stay sweet

and loving.”

Kay Ryan


Do not go.


Your incremental leaving

Is my tradition


Bright land of meadows and swamps

Stockades lunging out to sea; and away


Is a lighted corridor of words.

Arch of comprehension


Walls, immaculate syllogisms

Fleet-footed in rebellious whiskey


Clutching at inevitability

Poetised to luminescence.


Wrinkled voice of spinster mermaids

Mocking from the warm obelisks of waves


A surplus self, in avalanche of mood contagion

And persistent usability of things;


Shaped only if submitted to the tyranny of therefores

Incarnated in imperious implications


Tasked to rewrite regret as a flamed sensing

Of air that should have been you


Of smoked mackerel that no more

Shall be eaten


Of cupfuls of coffee

That now are twice


As many; of disrupted rigour

Of morning’s cyclical riddles


Of otherness that will

Again distance itself

4,000 miles away


I must go

And in my going stay

Sweet and loving

Had there been thunderstorms?


No, but there had been dreams


April rolls its laughter of light, enabling

The world to announce itself, bursting

Cocoons of consciousness woven by a practiced blacksmith

Who then decides to let

Coldly sweet thighs of women

Turn black streets of England into a pinacotheca


And there was a flowered procession

(June set the imperial scene, as if the day were Corpus Christi)

To a perspicuous fountain

Our coalescing presences withstood

Lingering dogs, heel-minted petals,

Our breaths (which were the beating of our wings)

Purified of the sacred distance


Melancholy torpedoes of this rain


Our bodies held to account

A dazed forgetfulness of grass

After that our entwinement was easy

Our ecstasies sung by beautiful prescient poets

And in my hand I then felt

A soft shape of attentive Summer


There had been thunderstorms, I know

But there must have been dreams

As others predicted, it is.

I’ll guard this dark sweetness with all unspoken mights of jealousy

From the burning mark of past in which it was not mine


Through to our brightly lit Manhattan flat

That we call future


That I will trade empires for you

Is a given, as much as

A song I sing to touch your hesitant lips

The glory of your laughter

Is worth


Nothing that I can put in words

Incapacitated willing


A scattered letter

That perhaps

Can mean a fraction

Of the feast

That you make of my lived world