Category Archives: Poetry

I. Leaving my air- conditioned digs I drove half an hour hiked a quarter mile

They of course caught Bulova red-handed. He had more hands than one, naturally, but it was the bloody one that mattered— the third hand, the one entitled second,

Joan Wicleff it was from whom I learnt: art is a verb.

Once upon a time in Memphis, I consumed 300 films a year; what would I ever have done in a ghosted town like yours,

inspired by the film of that name i. You want me to turn out the lamp. I linger on your face a little longer.

Perhaps you should stop reading now. Continue and you may determine whether this poem begins to live today or if it be dead when read, as said.

We are the occupiers. This is the land we possess. Hollow rings a tribute to its past stewards, however noble,

An Australian preferred the limerick

I hold you. Clad in papered foil (or is it paper foiled?) peeled back, you slyly reveal the arc of your sagging bun as we sit