Today's Malady


Mediocrity’s a killer

But there’s nothing a bit of Latin American music can’t fix.

Straight out of my childhood.

Riding the train along the beach

Waiting for the water to reach my toes.

Highs, lows and in between woes 

Did not exist

A blank canvass

When did I sign up to this?

I don’t remember any piece of paper

Writing my future

In the sand

An hourglass

Fast falling grains in slow motion

A fool’s devotion

Enhanced emotion

Without time in a place where there’s no space to face the disgrace

Filling your heart with hate for no reason other than ignorance towards a different race. 


Coriander is a light shade of green

Or perhaps that’s just the way it seems

Because it’s young.


Yet before its time, it's dying.

A soul starved of oxygen is a ball of tightly meshed wire that replaces your heart.


The fat gunslinger plays darts and drinks beer.

He sings all the way through your verse with his perverse words.


His perception is fucked. Yet he scores high and he hits the bullseye.

His lens, the eye, has become his whole world; a morally deficient high ground is a child’s imaginary circus; a land of freaks and giants. 

He is low. It’s all for show. Come see the animals on the brink of extinction.


It lingers. His smell.

His sweat.

His flabby arms ripple in the smoke-filled auditorium, more like an abattoir. 

These walls should be tiled white like the experimental labs in Auschwitz.

The stench of rotten flesh is guised by the scent of wealth and its perfume is addictive and contagious and possessive. 

It will ruin the world.


This is fresh.

OR Is it frozen? Is it rash? Does it need chaos defrost?

A setting on the microwave.

I’m talking fresh like killer.


When an aboriginal man delivers a chunk of fresh ‘killa’ to your door, you don't turn him away.

Don’t have to pay.

It’s kindness. It’s giving. It’s not a part of our culture but it is theirs and any other. 

It would be offensive to offer anything in exchange.

No way.

Fuck that.

Food is life.


In my kitchen there are four shelves one on top of the other.




They’re not just shelves for books or magazines.

They hold my whiskey bottles and my dreams.

And my antique coffee pot.


Also, there’s a neat little geranium that is as old as me.

I move it around from room to room from time to time

On the old church pew, on to the table

Even into the room with a better view –

But that’s not true.


All you can see is the road where parked cars gleam in the sunlight.

The blinds are heavy metal but only an insect can be crushed under their weight.


Lightweight polymer, so I’m told.

I love biology

It has made me who I am.


But yet, biology is indistinct and formulaic.

Isn’t everything a formula?


No. Not this fucking poem

Fuck form. Fuck iambic pentameter.




This is the new world order.

This is serious.




Twist, motherfucker.

We’re not playing bop-it.

We’re playing real life

We’re breaking convention.

We’re reckless.


Just look up all the con's' in your dictionary

And you’ll see that life is but a joke.



The world of waves

Is a rave

And a multitude of feeling

Reeling in a good catch

A match for your sanity

An obvious routine that captures a dream.