The seeds of suffering

Forced beat boxing
poor feet poxing
panther panting
tensing taxing
peanut butter
broken banter
tangled wire
some tiny clatter
beauty branded
Berlin battered
tempest tempted
tattered standards
flip it backwards
send it forwards
bounty baked but
nothing matters
prolog foreword
index ending
time false start
a new beginning.

no two feet stepping
a provocation
swing a futon back
to a new location
seventeen degrees
of separation
all of us depart
from the chains we’re making
a momentary shuffle
a risk worth taking
seeds of suffering
shelve the covering
sort yourself out
persist in vanishing
it’s just a glimpse
of what’s unseen
the hidden agenda
of every thing
we’ve slayed our illusions
our demons too
the truth is not what’s out there
it’s what we do.


The Fly Cults

The magnificent boy king, the creator, lord of flies, collects up his insect subjects in the herebefore and instructs them thus: “you have but one purpose in your short life. You must find the nose of an unsuspecting human and fly up it. They may be walking to work or riding a bike or sitting casually in their backyard. Your sworn duty is to find and disrupt these self-important beasts.”

As often happens with the learnings of divine council, all was forgotten upon incarnation.  Only a precious few recalled something vaguelly important about the human nose. ‘To breathe is to be’ they would buzz while passing one another. The philosophically inclined among them may seek to inquire, what then is a fly, who passively exchanges gasses through its exoskeleton?

In this manner the Fly Cults developed, gathering in the deserts, shepherding their flocks of sheep, congregating near places of human reverie. The scraps of humanity were their places of worship, sites of dancing and much rubbing of forelimbs.

These were the followers of the great seer Nostrildamus. Who foresaw the great sneeze which was to befall the earth.

It was left to the youth to fight back, to reclaim their birthright. There had to be more to life than serving some predefined mandate, flying in the face of another species. It was time. The maggots were revolting.

photos, Writing

Being and Thyme

I too was young like you


Now I’m only good for barbecue

I was

Weathered by the winds of time

World weary

The glow of youth has gone


A pepper is a pepper is a pepper


Skin leathery or crisp


Bring flavour with equal satisfaction 


When we’re all in the same pot

Life itself.


It is

Blessed are those who seek 

what they can’t see

Some mumbling bumbling 


Jewelled demons claw at you

They speak without voice

Only need a few dollars

Employer of choice.


If it hides, light its darkness

If it fights, set it free

No actor can act 

what a being can’t be.


The dancers deceive us

Sweet night set us free

This turbid green liquor 

Herein lies the sea


Open the window

Take in the air

Bathe in the lamplight

Reject every care


Concrete and fences

All guide your way home

But it’s too late

And it feels late

Because it is late

And we commiserate that

In the end

We’re all










But that’s ok. 




Gate, gate, paragate



Devoid of hate

Or was it something that I ate?

photos, Writing

Golden Man

Little golden man,
where are you running?
There’s nowhere to be,
up on your shelf.
Your wicker basket
weighs no more than you
And is just as precious,
not precious at all.
Little golden man,
with a hat for a head
Tell me your treasure,
“No treasure at all”.
Ah, now I see,
So very precious,
Not a dead insect,
The moth deserved more.
Thwarted by glass,
And forgotten by sunshine,
The flowers of spring,
Mean nothing at all.
Dust in the morning,
Disrupted by black birds,
The garden is dirty
(Not dirty at all)
Electricity’s out
A solar light charges
Anticipate nighttime
Compete with the moon.
No work can be done
No internet blinking
No wisdom forthcoming
The moth died to soon.
Little gold man
Gilded in nothing
We’ll empty your basket,
This verse is for you.





Deeper than you think