From Dreamswept Fuckscape

From dreamswept fuckscape

you surfaced to skin.

From sleepsunk night

through half hidden borderlands:

the interstitial spaces of want and have

to the flatlands of a needsome Now,

and found like all surfacing, the superficial

safety of non-committal

pales beside the depths of mingled DNA-

where we exist at truest, 

Where communal histories dance

in millennial veils.


Dreams, our clothes at their most naked

and in the awakening we feel

all surfacing a lie-

and yet, where we intersect

at the boundaries of sentences and skin

weaving ourselves to the depths of us,

searching for the other,

we imprint our loves

on the descent into us,

drag the ghosts of our impressions of them into cores

where bodies cling to crusts

and intellect slips to the mantle of our being.

We make phantoms of ourselves

and bind ourselves to myth.


We live tangential to life

pulling the edges inwards,

acquiring skins to consume,

ingesting all surface out of desire.

Inwardly tumbling in gleeful freefall

to the half-dreamt marrow of our souls.

But we are not there,


we only exist at the margins.

We are all surface.


I felt my life in velvet

I felt my life in velvet closing down

But fondly fell the shutters on my heart,

As darkness groaned the parting lovelight gone

It murmured in the moonless night unstarred.

And sat unsung in silence sovereign waiting,

To brood upon emotion gone amiss;

Closed, the cavern’s grown in the abating-

Its’ chambers echo to its own sad kiss.

Yet should your lips a whisper kind impart

Come carried on the wind of your breaths sighs

I’d lightened be by one stroke of your art

And opened in the greening of your eyes

For darkness falls on those who rest upon it

And falls to light when light doth cast her bonnet


Early morning mutts charge the sea headlong,

odd cocked legs stalling the bolting.

Tense stretched tethers tie walkers to walked.


Sand-flies drizzle the sun-baked seaweed,

Martins swoop skirting dunes,

Yet it’s as still as any photograph.


Bits of life repeating their yesterdays.


Familiar waves wash in the driftwood of past losses;

On another day it would be memories of warm august rain

Or sweated skin, but today each wave

Is the birth and death of an old friend.


He ghosts quietly onto land and fizzles out.

He sings the same familiar refrain which echoes along the bay

Then sadly his ghost arrives again and again

Oozing memories

Refusing to sleep just yet.


Oh Alisdair.

I Would Have You A Tree

I would have you a tree,

Fruit-sprung green,

Heart of love-poemed paper.


Sap of ink.


Rooted in the garden of me,

the love-suckled soil.

Gain of the sustenance of words,

leafing me come autumn.


I would have you the rain

cloud-free coming.

Find me wet-lipped,

waterfell sky drunk

Sup your earth-rush.


Monsoon minded


O for the more and the want

mud me from dust to earth…

I would have you as you are

And none of nature.

Unpossessed and mine.



Namaqualand daisies


Yellow, orange
Namaqualand daisies-
a sparkling carpet


how you bloom this spring.


Yellow, orange
interspersed redly
amongst mesembryanthemums,
you flower mid-day, sunsprung.


Titian-topped apricot opening.
Floodgate juiced.
Felt-brushed yellow.
Ripe orange-


I should cultivate you
to bloom
all year round.
Yellow, orange.


Out of Love

Autumn leaves fall so slowly

out of love

with the trees, to winter ground-

where they lie hugging old scarred soil

out of love

and shrivel and dryly die,

when they are finally all

out of love.


But the trees they leave

are yet young, budding greenly

out of love. Again

grow greener with each sun

which lightens and renews;

always doing what it must

just out of love.

Nature being what it is

borne out of Love.

Word Down

You’re one word in a dictionary.
You’re defined by several others.
They in turn get definitions
From a handful, sometimes you.

Your meaning changes over decades,
Some words fall into disuse.
You become arcane and pointless-
Obscurantists find you cute.

Remember the point of your creation,
You were on everyone’s lips.
They finally had a word for it
And they could mean just what they say.

But you are just one of millions;
The language lives, the words they fade.
Darwin wrote the rules for language-
You don’t adapt, you fade away.

The Sun King, Setting

There goes the Sun King, setting.

For much of my life the Old Man refusing to die

The great I Am that I Am, that I’m not.

The Age of Ego passing over.


The maleness, physicality birthing insubstantiality,

Bedding down, drifting to dream,

Succumbing to Spirit:

The breath that’s in everything


Ghosting into understanding.


Where all meets nothing and both are the same;

The Pleroma game, hide-and-seek in full view.




So here are some words for where we are now-

The Differentiated here/there

In parallel with Oneness.

The Mystery’s breath is Everywhere



A harpoon, slung.

A fully extended arm

wrenched, wrung.


A torn muscle ripped.


blood flood.


Blubber and bible thumper,

rubber, wood and rust.





Thought and deed

carry my future.

Religion maddened by nature.


I am his downfall.

I am him.

Blowhole cry

ignites the icy sky.