I have spent my life on stones

July 22, 2009 at 6:46 pm | Posted in writing | 23 Comments
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(“What would motivate a man who has been through literal hell, who has lost badly in the romance game and decided long ago he won’t play again–what would make this man decide to love a woman?” Sharon Gerlich)

I’m not sure that you need a motivation to fall in love, as though it were a choice. I think it just happens. When I was younger, I experienced love as gratitude. Gratitude for the sex, yes, but also for the comfort and the momentary release from the otherwise constant feelings of inadequacy which modern life produces and reinforces in a man. But my objectives in life were all about myself and my own success. Love was an escape and a relief.

Now I am older and I have discovered that all the great goals of my life, money, fame, respect, were all as ephemeral as dust. Everything I wanted for myself became meaningless as soon as at it was in my hands and life was a permanently incomplete chain of ambitions. Until I fell in love again.

By providing a purpose outside of myself, my love for her gives meaning to both the struggle and the attainments. Without her my life would still be a jumble of stones and digging of holes. With her I am constructing castles and developing gardens. In giving my effort to her, I retain it. My strengths are given purpose and my weaknesses have reasons and I look to her as others look to God, as the only available redemption.


Faith and Faithful.

December 16, 2008 at 6:48 pm | Posted in writing | 13 Comments
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A lot of my writing has to do with language herself, words and how best to make them work in harmony because I believe, since language evolves naturally certain truths get hidden within her and sometimes they evolve outward like pearls, they become true through a self-fulfilling momentum of her hips.

Faith for instance means belief without evidence. Faithful means unswerving loyalty. At first one wonders why faithful is not simply full of faith. Or a delicate swirl of silver in the dark sky, reversed perhaps. That loyalty is simply belief without evidence.

Making love in the dark,

October 16, 2008 at 6:59 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 20 Comments
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red tulips in a vase
I dreamed we were holding hands
listening to a brass band in the park
I dreamed the scent of tulips in a vase
(sight is not vision)
and your laugh

Woke with a taste most particular and a
delicate tremor in the heart.
I dreamed the most discrete caress
pleats in a long forgot yellow dress
and your laugh,

red tulips around a pagoda
a latticework utmost ornate
containing a brass band in the park
red tulips in a vase
(making love in the dark)
and your laugh.

By a rushing stream a soldier knelt.

September 17, 2008 at 6:31 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 30 Comments
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Cannot begin to imagine the end of
delight in you and the strangeness of touch
tasting enough or divining some final
truth of you or beginning to wish your eyes
your lips, your lips your eyes, desire
in movement away my dear appearing nearer
to thee when my mind declines my
blood descends a kiss not this nor here but
where there is no end of you some
river runs some planet dips a swoop of fish
a clasp of song a longing belonging
to you becoming yours by some squeezing
force an opening call unheard before
imagine no end to beginning again waking
you with a kiss just this not here nor
there but whisper this in your ear my dear
i love you,

Some women are standing on the corner.

June 20, 2008 at 7:54 pm | Posted in writing | 24 Comments
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‘Tis a difficult subject on which to be discursive without betraying a certain, hmm, well let me just say that my monogamy has been serial and more a product of laziness than any moral compunction. Despite the quite necessary complexity of my speech (I am quite enamoured of delicacy, possessed of a tremendous respect for the exquisite precision of which the language is capable) I am a simple creature, a male human being and as such require little more than a full stomach and a soft place to devolve in order to be happy.

It rained this afternoon, a sudden storm gone almost before it arrived and now the sun is setting behind grandiloquent purple grey clouds. It is as if I am contained within a generosity of soft light. It is possible to love someone you can not touch when the world is so aligned. Are the gulls heralding morning there, my love? The sea, no doubt, seeks calm.

Language and light, both ways of being touched. I have never slept with a woman with whom I have not fallen in love. That is a simple sentence, like fingertips on a forearm, deliberate and smiling. Slept with, you see. Sex is quite random, dependant on availability but when waking up next to in the 2 am and feeling blessed by some eternal as if an angel has landed to take away all fears,

Long ago I was resigned and resolved to being a constructor of difficult sentences which could not slip by unfelt. I am aware that to be loved by me is an unneeded challenge.
When I was young I could not understand what a woman would want with this, the tugging why of it, but soon learned puppy dog eyes. Now I am older, raggedy and limping. The streetlights struggle in vain to overcome the night. There is the club in which I began my career, entertaining the strippers and the band. What a life. Miles Davis taught that there is a melancholy to love, a permanent yearning. Three legged dog was never as obvious as it appeared.

There is a gaggle of girls available on the corner, secretaries and receptionists. They are so young and the obviousness of my attempts to hide my easy money and my familiarity with the requisite understanding is really just a subtle exercise in revealing them. An aboriginal man is busking the didge. They know me, recognise my admiration for any culture in which the title ‘Aunty’ is the highest attainable.

I am walking home to write about women. It will not be my best work, my darling, but I hope you see in it that my love of the exquisite precision of which the language is capable is actually a longing, an aspiration. And that the light which has fled over the horizon while I was writing these Australian sentences is the same light which is now gracing your soft skin.

night sky prayer

June 12, 2008 at 7:06 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 29 Comments
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What joy there is in speaking into silence
in the absence of echoes where words
race away unremembered into the night sky,
a tumultuous cascade like long dark curls
from which stars sparkle like eyes
and sentences unfurl,
turn back twist then trail bare traces
of lips whispering arcane phrases
verbless round the subtle curves of space,
disappear into a soft fold in time
becoming yours, my love, these words
not mine,

(This piece has been podcast, by someone else, here)

good morning,

June 9, 2008 at 8:19 pm | Posted in writing | 21 Comments
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… grateful not only for your attention but also for your wicked wicked witchy ways which I love and just wanna grab hold of you right now and swing you off your feet and back into that soft, warm bed you just came from and fall into you, fall into you and disappear, to demonstrate one more time in one perfect moment that magic, art and religeon are all manifestations of the one thing, combined in one perfect existence, yours.
And then I would serve you tea and strawberries and dress you in a purple gown.

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