Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Crooked

It is your wry little sideways-smile
I love you for the most.
A half-smile, really –
more than enough.
In the heartbeat-stirred whorls
of my day-dreams
it floats, Cheshirically;
an entirety of you
in one perfect

Published in: on April 14, 2011 at 4:30 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Cold Comfort

In skulking sculpture’s sculpted heart,
twin beds lie in growing dark.
You stop and stare,
half amazed –
beach volleyball, in Central Park?
You slip inside,
bare feet freed,
run rough cold sand
between antipodean toes
and dream of beaches
as strains of Powderfinger
slip softly from your lips.

Published in: on March 31, 2011 at 3:36 pm  Comments (4)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Succulent You

It is not enough to know you
as other men have known you.
It is not enough to know you
as well as hands,
and eyes,
and lips allow.
I want to know you inside me
I want to know inside you
I want to know you every way you can be known,
I want you still sizzling on my tongue,
I want your saltiness on my lips,
I want the slick grease of you on my fingers;
I want to run my deft, eager tongue over them,
tasting you in tender licks,
my smacking, sucking, slippery lips,
savouring you head-to-hips.

I want you salted, smoked and sliced,
hung and cured and aged just right.
I want the salty bacon of you,
all of you,
just you,
in me.

Published in: on March 17, 2011 at 6:13 pm  Comments (5)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Whirl

I wrote this whilst listening to ‘In This Shirt‘ by The Irrepressibles, which you might enjoy in accompaniment to the poem.

The smoke rolls in
like a fog
and they dance.

It curls around their ankles,
like the tentacles
of some creeping dread
and they dance.

It swells over them,
like a lover’s hands
caressing their hips,
and they dance.

The floor burns,
and their steps quicken,
in hot-footed frenzy,
they dance.

And the band plays on,
and the smoke strokes their necks
and they dance.

And in the whirling madness
of their tarantella
they draw it in,
fill themselves
and they dance.

Oh, how they dance.

Published in: on March 3, 2011 at 6:36 pm  Comments (1)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Pour

The Mona Lisa

The teapot is timeless
compatible with anything

Comfortable in the uncertainty of an empty shelf
of unmet companions
and unborn conversations.

This first porcelain brick
of the future I hope to build,
with the man I love
in this over-brewed city;
infused in the overwhelmingly
Tannic acid of
too bitter,
too sharp,
too much.

Unboiling under unwavering eyes,
the anticipation

of Irish Breakfast
Sunday mornings
and Thursday evenings
of warmth,
and the New York Times.

the Lady Greys of

The Russian Caravans of
good friends

the day
when I have enough company
to put away my lonely tea-bags
for good.

Its generous curves
pregnant with possibility,
filling, drip by drip
with futures
as solid as vapor
and tea-leaf prophecies.

A wave frozen cresting,
a surge impending
through my life;

But for now,
It sits,
and waiting.

A Harding/Kealey collaboration

Published in: on February 17, 2011 at 5:54 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – 87%

Don’t think I don’t feel
those sweet-caressing fingers of yours
closing ’round my throat.
Don’t think I don’t know
those warm summer breezes are sent
to lull me to sleep.
Don’t think just because
I smile stupidly, eyes half open,
half dozing, half dreaming,
that I’ve forgotten to fear
your sweet, deep abyss,
the shadowy embrace of your tightening arms,
the slow clawing of your dark,
the slow drag down deep below.

Don’t think you’ve won,
just because you have me on my back;
I only rest
for what is yet to come.

Published in: on February 3, 2011 at 4:23 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – A Long-Overdue Ode to Butter

What sweeter kiss ‘pon tongue than this,
from fair yet unseen maid,
hidden in taste’s dark foundation,
from whose soft, salt-tinged kiss,
comes culinary culmination,
and miracles be made!?

Though sugar may be sweeter still,
cocoa more sharply bitter,
cheese, well, more cheese,
and margarine arguably fitter,
none of these could so ably please,
without your subtle skill.

For on your soft shoulders they stand,
to ply their dainty pleasures,
you, bulwark of the dish and plate,
foundation for the truly grand,
who you so ably elevate,
the gold in all their treasures.

From the first greased pan,
foundation of all toast,
the secret of a great croissant,
nothing do I so ardently want,
as what I hunger for the most;
a little butter avec mon pain!

Published in: on January 20, 2011 at 4:16 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Abyss of Me

What darkness might my dark hands wreak,
in darkened halls,
where darkness speaks?

What fractures might fair fingers form,
and shattering dawn-scattering,
in smashing’s sweet seduction song;
the sound of cracking, cracking on?

What horror might my dread heart sing
into shadows from nothing,
from briny depths deeper than the sea;
the scaly abyss,
abyss of me.

What darkened things might arise,
when weaving shadows like lies,
’til in a cloak of deadened night,
I come, hungry, for your light.

Published in: on January 6, 2011 at 3:47 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Secret Kisses, Stolen Heart

Be honest now,
I know it’s been a while,
but tell me,
that sticky-fingered little boy,
he broke your heart,
didn’t he?

So you act all fire & bluster,
and stomp,
and scowl,
and rage and howl,
but it isn’t what he did,
and it isn’t what he said,
that’s set you all in such a rage.

No no, come now,
it’ll be ok,
take a breath,
I know, it takes courage to say,
that when he pulled his fingers away,
was when the leaks ‘came cracks,
and the feeble dike upon your heart
slowly started breaking apart.

And so you set your teeth, so sharp,
as bare as your broken heart,
and scratch,
and hiss,
and glare and growl,
but we all know this isn’t you,
and this isn’t what you mean to do,
just a frightened little kitten,
trying so hard to be brave.

Published in: on December 23, 2010 at 8:17 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Commitment

I’m sorry about how it ended,
really –
for all the jealousy,
and pain,
and heartbreak.

I’m sorry that I’ve probably destroyed your ability to trust
any man
ever again.

And maybe this is a selfish thing to say,
but I want you to know;
I’m not a monster,
I swear,
I’m just
really committed
to the “your mum” joke.

Published in: on December 10, 2010 at 8:31 am  Leave a Comment  
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