I walk by the beautiful shit river Dodder flowing
Through fallen rubble and serpent city weeds.
People mill by like so many ants moved by the
Paper pheromone scent of the societal hive,
Forgetting beatific animal essence that glows
Inside forever coiling forward motion,
Divinity supressed in industrial machine body.

On the train I pass carcasses of fallen industry:
Rusted tin roofs the colour of seashells offering
Brief beauty in carrion decay, gleaming poignant
Through gutted dreams.

When did you grow and when did you die,
Oh ghostly parasite of men’s dreams of progress?
Pipe dreams replaced by hopelessness and narcosis.

I think of young men like ( ),
Blasting himself with booze and benzos until a
Grand malicious awakening to a reality of frustrated
Adulthood never quite entered.
And another, saved by a Narcan tenement angel
On adventures overseas.

I think of lyrical ecstasy of beer, music, and taste
With I, and P, and O, into early hours of the morning,
Until some tired bus shuttles me home through weary suburbs.

Of poetic waffle and beatific philosophising
With B and F, and countless other anonymous initials
With so much potential worthy of expansion into
Whole beautiful names and forms, drowning in rivers
Of soon forgotten sessions,

Flowing seamlessly behind us,
Along tracks of eternity through
The serpent city shedding its skin.


Kali Yuga in Herbert park

It is the KALI YUGA,
And I sit in Herbert Park
Drinking beer and Spilling
Thoughts with J.

Chaos strides around
The winding paths
Of this suburban enclave
With it’s joggers and prams
A testament to health
And reproduction,
Invisible to all who
Use only eyes to see.

The hedging is gone.
It’s been cut down,
And the old duck pond
Lies exposed behind
The dusty dirt relic of
It’s once proud enshrining
Greenery, which led one
Along it’s embankment,
For a moment cut off from the
Herbert Park Road and the
Exercise groups and families
On the grass beyond.

It now lays flattened
To a singular vision and plane,
Revealing us as a dirty blight
On a clean ideal.
A few sticks protrude from
The dry soil like withered skeletal
Remains of a crowning wreath,

Demolished in a feeble
Attempt at order and ease,

Forgetting the nature of our times.

The carrion stench of
Decaying youth
Rises from our bodies
On the exposed bench
As professional couples
Saunter past.

In our words we try to dance on
The ugly heads of ignorance,
Planning our late Initiation
Into adulthood,

But there’s no bloody
Coming-of-age rites here,
No violent subsicions or
Planned ordeals bestowed upon us
By the elders of society,
Only the personalised anxiety
Faced in our minds and

Executed alone.


Like a poppy
I grow out of disturbed soil;

Tumultuous exposure does me good.

Though violent in it’s intensity,
And shit certainly does get turned
Upside down
Once or twice,

When all is lifted and settled,
At least the cracks and rifts left
In my previously protective top-soil
Leave some room for light to shine in.

Allowing something to germinate –

Through ripped apart roots,
gasping and green – reaching for air,
Stretching from damp safe darkness
Out to new open space,

Where wind rocks my stem,

And I grow seed-filled pods
That seep bitter intoxicating milk
For me to consume, from lesions
Cut into my surface,

By dirty nimble hands.

When the world was a door

Looking out my window
Late at night at starry sky,
My mind takes a mental leap
Back in time, to a small plane
On the edge of a forrest,
Before windows existed to look out of,

When the world was a door
             And infinite.

Gazing up, the sky became a world.
Stars fiery watchful spirits observing
From afar,
Flickering in dark unreachable firmament,
Imbued with benevolence or

Changing with the position of the day
             And our mood.

The possibilities where endless then really,
Although the resources few.
Now I sit on a duvet of down,
Staring at burning gas through glass,
Protected from the elements, and
Sheltered by knowledge.

Safe walls erected to protect me
             From wild unfettered experience.

Rosy Cross

A rose grows out of my bookshelf.

Thorns rip through pages worn and read
Bleeding ink and ideas half forgotten,

Spilling seeds that once sprouted inside me
But whose growth became stunted
Through age and exposure;

Ideals once held dear but made
Distant and watery with time.

It was once
A conceptual nurturing womb,
From which I would pick fruit
To consume and live on quite contently.
But now,
It sprouts prickly abstracted hedging
On increasingly infertile soil –

A labyrinth for the willing to get lost in,
And sift through seeds scattered by muses,

Which now lay dormant and parched
On the desert floor of my room,
Waiting for fresh streams to pass over them,
And reduce the bookshelf to wet rubble on my floor.
Leaving Planks and inky pulp,

From which to craft my cross.

The Book of Nothing II

Inspired by The Book of Nothing by Ben Thonett (posted below).

The Book of Nothing II

A prelude to nothing

By Naught

Chapter I – Nothing

It was the beginning and nothing was everything.

Nothing was all there was and nothing was all there wasn’t.

Nothing was surrounded by nothing.

Nothing was defined by nothing and nothing was defined at all.

Nothing was watched by nothing and nothing watched.

Nothing was in harmony with nothing.

Nothing was nothing perfect.

Zero was all there was and even void did not exist.

Chapter II – Nothing

Then nothing got uncertain and uncertainty was something.

Nothing pushed off nothing sending nothing out to nowhere.

Nothing left more nothing between all the other nothings.

Nothing wanted to share nothing with no thing.

Nothing contemplated this thing and nothing was to be done.

Nothing kept expanding and nothing got much bigger.

Nothing created more nothing from the concept of nothing.

In nothing something stirred but can nothing be something?

Chapter III – Nothing

Some nothing got bored of nothing and decided to try something.

Nothing saw anything because nothing could see.

Nothing fell in love with anything and anything married nothing.

Nothing begets nothing so nothing populated anything.

Nothing got bored of being nothing and nothing wanted to be something.

Nothing stopped and looked at nothing.

Nothing thought about nothing and nothing meant anything at all.



By no one


It was the end of the world but nothing paid attention.

Nothing was watched and nothing watched.

Nothing died and nothing survived.

Nothing didn’t hold merit.

Nothing didn’t exist.

Nothing could not be grasped.

Some things were void but nothing was zero.

Nothing held accountability, ignorance and injustice.

Nothing didn’t care.

CHAPTER II – Nothing

Once nothing cared, nothing mattered.

Nothing held substance.

Nothing was created.

After nothing was created, nothing exists.

chapter III – nothing

Nothing will be accountable.

Nothing will be ignorant and

nothing will be unjust.

Cutting In

Cutting in at angles with a side-glance

The ruby eyes of Ganesha watching
Elephantine mass exuding pull
From clear light lotus emanation
Folding inwards on itself with my mind
On its side again looking up from angles

At geometry built on planes of nothing

Zero imbued with meaning through structure
Existing between tension and freedom
We live in obscure domains of form
Where obstacles become venerated
And obstacles are the whole thing

And I think of perspective

As my body elongates and fuses
With the fabric of being
The universal stuff out of nothing
Surging through black arteries
Running through looping trunks
In which no angles exist

But back here on the straight plane

When viewed from a multitude of angles
Sloping visions of the scenes unfolding
Start to coalesce into schizoid chaos
Each piece askew to the next
Constantly rearranged and unbalanced
In a jumbled moving collage.