Posted in Rituals


For the time it was avant-garde
scandalous, even a little subversive.
Prime time television, late mid – evening
skits and satire
the conservative and the oppressed found it outrageous
and compulsory
an avalanche of complaints to the network and monitoring authority.
one run series
no reprise with repeats
or reprieve with second instalment
finished, forever.

At the last moment, of the last show
the MC,
and zeitgeist
spoke –
“many have written to complain
about content
and language
especially the language,
well, at least I didn’t say fuck.”



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.