For breakfast I eat up my vowels, my a e i o u, to which I add from consonants a fricative or two;
After that I move my bowels then write as poets do, and frequently am quite surprised to feel a trill come through.

Sunday, 6 May 2012


Walking out toward Pigeon Island
I pass men fishing from the rocks
with breaded hooks and baited looks
returning smile for knowing smile.

Suddenly I'm caught -- for a moment poised 
between an earthquake and a noise 
which groans from faults that lie below
and pound as ground grinds ground.

Excitedly the seagulls flock
to scraps of fish left on the rocks:
the sky is full of stink and cry
as squall carries squall and sewage.

Beneath the skin, his scent, a sigh:
My smile returns his knowing smile.

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