I am a writer

I am a writer
a born writer
published by a womb

Handwritten by a nib from an inkwell
between the lines
a joined-up writer

I am a copy writer
essays scribbled from memory

Minutes taken at meetings
reporter, drafter,
instructing others

Propaganda scribe
editor of text
pointed editorials

I am a writer
I want to be published
I have nothing to say
except what you want to hear.


And I am a writer
I create
thoughts I own
feelings I conceive
imaginations I imagine

I write in a vacuum I design for my muse
floating in space.


I too am a writer
a bought writer
my labour earns me food, shoes, shelter
I compose with blood, sweat and fingers fit for travel
to Atlantis and Arthritis.


I am writing my way through a stone,
as if a schizoid elephant
home from Kubla Kahn

A man I looked at twice

A man I looked at twice

I saw a man that reminded me of another,
grey bristles conjured up a face
I’d forgotten.

The forgotten put me in mind of the father
I’d lost, and that deathbed
brought back to life

the mother of my best friend
as she lay wasting
and the nurse checked the cathedra

made in a country where I’d visited
the Pied Piper’s adopted home
and fell asleep

in a single bed over which a portrait
of Saint Aloysius hung, next to the holy water font
replenished by an unknown agency.




I self-published the first version of this poem on my blog in January 2006