Posted in Love


Al, I always thought his name would be Alan,
Alistair seemed too posh
too like Julian or Sebastian
too boarding school and club,
to from a world,
to which he did not belong … and never would.
We were all temporary immigrants
young – working abroad
bonded by heritage and geography.

Al … Alistair, it didn’t matter
before incongruity could ponder
chance and wit had renamed him, ‘caveman ’ 
 • idolatrous drinking
 • 6 months on the run hirsute
 • primordially unhouse-trained

One evening,
the yard glass –
time trials –

1 yard, 90 cm, half a gallon of beer,
downed by one, at speed.
Caveman goes first – no waiting
gulp …
foamy reflux, states of matter –
gas, liquid and solids
mop up, all fours, floor and collateral shoes, with tongue.

Random are the alignments of crowd –
alongside one I never associated with insight or compassion
some people really know how to have fun I say,
in the way people remark on the weather.
Response equals surprise.
“No, it’s not fun. It’s sad.
He’s created this being,
developed an image
and now feels compelled to uphold it.”



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.