Posted in Lies


Everyone and everything was young
proprietors of youth
prospectors of the profound.
Rock stars in the ridiculed forties
screeched anarchy from conservative mansions.
Guitar heroes’ rift mythology
reverentially murmured and air plucked.
Amidst the ascending noise
a quiet soundtrack.

A folk singer with lyrics
of ordinary people and everyday hopes
endlessly played in a machine
now resting with the typewriter in antiquity.
One song became a favourite
a couple with intense dreams
dissociate temporarily
to travel single lanes of career
never to realign
a chance meeting with no magic. And no appointment.

“This will be us sad eyes tell me
for you the effort will be too great.”
No balm is applied to raw prediction.
Time corroborates her prophecy
distance distracts closeness.

The vicarious dark of middle age
early death
serious illness
brutal divorce
brings determination to remedy dispassion.
She says there is no need – friendship remains.
We both know this not to be true.

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Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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