Posted in Love


Every metropolis, every city, every town
has a hierarchy –
smaller = steeper.

They said the population on a good day
was 200 or 300
give or take a hundred. It didn’t matter
everyone knew her parents ranking.
I or 2
probably 1.
There were rumours
stories of a wilful teenager
high spirits or habits or vice – spite could choose.
I’d never been witness
but listened and wondered
until I saw the Community Centre …. and didn’t.

Body waste-d.

Sarah from the committee ignored it all :
the overcast stench
the nihilistic eruptions 
the graffiti of disrespect –
the only person not outraged or schadenfreude-d
“Poor Katey, she’s only 16,
and done it all ……
she’s got nothing to look forward to.”



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.