Tag Archives: poetry

Night-walks in Toowong

Laughter and screams

And drunkenness echo down

From window-box apartments

Bright against the starless sky.

I fill the empty street.

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The Night Closes In

Possums perch,

like gargoyles or grotesques,

guarding tree-branch archways and crippled, leaning fences.

The night closes in.

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I’m too


To do anything

Other than write

This crap poem


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Smoke curled, blue-grey-black

Into the night sky.

So damned cold.

He warmed himself

With the digging,

To get rid of this

Dead weight

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Noratus Cemetery, Armenia – Arantz

Contagion leaps out,



On every breath.


The shadows

Of serpents whisper,

Promising death

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Late Night Mistakes

Open Gutter – Brassai, “Paris by Night”

She smelled like two am

Spilled vodka

Stale cigarettes

She knew

She was making

A mistake

Because that


What she wanted

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We Live in the Future

She laughs,


flicks her hair at a boy

ten thousand miles away.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

They are in love.

I walk behind her,

and neither of them notice.


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The Hunters

Spring Brood – Brynn Metheney

Spring awakens, amidst

cherry blossoms blooming and the soft

April showers.

Their hunter’s taste for flesh

awakens too.

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The Magician’s New Apprentice

Flower - an Unfettered image, by Terry Whidborne

Flower – an Unfettered image, by Terry Whidborne

I fell down,
into an ink-black,
Swallowed whole.
It whispered
broken promises,
and told me
all the secret sins of my generation.
I obliged.

The voice,
led me away from the places I used to know.
The ghosts of places
I once haunted.
It taught me new illusions
and new conceits, as its
secrets awoke in me a strange flower –
a black mist, an emptiness, a magic
I had not known.

I fell down,
into that ink-black,
darkness, and stepped out
into the gas-lit streets,
weaving their blinding neon
into the curses that I already knew.

Ancient words,

never uttered on these

stained, goat-path, cobbled streets,

ancient words of power.


I scratched runes onto broken,

kicked-in doorways, hexes and wards.

Pictoglyphs, untranslated but
still-heeded by the mob.
I summoned vast intelligences,
forgotten demons, unloved gods.
They danced with me.
They surrendered their power.
Not willing, but willed.

I fell down,
I consumed that
ink-black, confessional
darkness. I made the world my own,
and cast off the fetters of mortality.
And now you, child.
I pass unto you this black flower,
my soul.
Together, we can watch
the world
catch aflame.

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Empty Windows

Union Canal at Night (04) - Bryonv2

Union Canal at Night (04) – Bryonv2

I always


Through people’s windows

As I pass,


To snatch a glimpse

Of lives I’m not



   It’s just

Empty windows, lit up.

But sometimes,



Empty people too.

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Sometimes I feel

                                      like I’m just

treading water.

                                 Breaking the surface,

                                                                             over and over

and over again,

                                 of that dark, mirror-pool inside me.

But not today.

                                 Not today.

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Truth in Fiction

I feel stuck.

In the moment, in the movement, in the shadows.

I feel stuck, mirroring the collapse.

In a funk, delayed, haunted by books and the images they throw, haunted by the notion of a work/life balance.

Haunted in crowded places, by faceless men and soulless women, by promise and potential and decay.

Their burned-out eyes, following me – where did everybody go?

That’s why I haven’t been writing much.

But I know how to break out of it.

I just have to write more.

Continue reading

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Merry Christmas

“What if Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store?

What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

“A thought-crime is a thought-crime,” the authorities said,

when they came through his door

and black-bagged his head.

The first couplet comes via Dr Seuss, from The Grinch, which is probably one of ‘those’ Christmas stories that’ll last forever. 

If you haven’t read it, do. Read it to your kids.

Don’t rely on the Jim Carrey-ed version. 

The rest sums up what Crimbo ends up like, most of the time. 

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T h u n k

Copyright Sean Fallon

As light faded she forced open her eyes, drawn onward by the promise, of a moment’s passion withheld, of his brief rigidity as she turned away.

Like a relic, sacrosanct, desecrated.

A broken marble man, shattered.

She set him on the footpath, closed her door, twisted the t h u n k ing locks into place.

He is broken.

She is made whole.

Until tomorrow.

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Review: Anais Nin, Little Birds

“We don’t see people as they are. We see people as we are.”

Anais Nin, at her best, is a writer who presents snapshots of erotica, cleverly written, poetic and raw –  she is the foremother of flash fiction. Anais Nin’s Little Birds is Anais Nin at her best. From the introduction – which is in itself a great story to read, telling as it does of her struggles for money amd the necessity of her writing erotica – to the last story in this collection, Little Birds is a collection of great stories, of perversion and lust and even, occasionally, of love.

Technically, adding Anais Nin to my Year of Reading Women is cheating – I’ve read her before, and I loved her before. And, seriously, when everyone on the planet has read Fifty Shades of Grey (charity shops are refusing copies of the book, they can’t sell it) there is no excuse for not having read this book. It took me a little while to get through, but only because I felt weird reading erotica at work…

“Every gesture was one of disorder and violence, as if a lioness had come into the room.” 

It’s full of beautiful (and, frankly, arousing) prose.

Pick it up.

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Wilfred Owen’s Death

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
8 October 1917 – March, 1918

Wilfred Owen died today, one week before the Armistice was signed to end the First World War. His Mother received the news on the day peace was declared. She collapsed on her doorstep, as church bells sung their celebrations of the end of war.

The “War to End All Wars.” 

If only. 

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The Unicorn

The Rabid Unicorn - Minna Sundberg

The Rabid Unicorn – Minna Sundberg

It spreads.

From one to another, at the breeding grounds,

leaving only

the wreckage of majesty

and the hunger

of the beast.

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Sunday Sketch 60 by Terry Whidborne

Sunday Sketch 60 by Terry Whidborne

There was an old woman

who lived in a goose

she went to the bank

she had nothing to lose

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The tuning-fork sings
but its song
isn’t as sweet
as the smile
in my daughter’s eyes

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The Dawn Chorus

The dawn chorus sings out

to greet

the soft kiss of the sun –

the shriek of an alarm clock,

motorcade rumblings,

the kichlang-kichlang of passing trains

already full

of empty-minded sacrifices

to the Money God,

the background people,

moving through the world.


The dawn chorus

growls and grumbles –

the city never sleeps.

Unless it’s when I do.

Continue reading

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