Gangs of wild men
carry curved knives
it’d be Ali Baba if this was Persia
to kill for wallet & passport

In far off places I’d be dead
many times except for my fucking kill you
Guinness face and incredible speed
over short distances.

Tonight at 1:00 am they want to kill me
I’m singing The Stranglers which totem-like
has worked before but not now as Ali comes for
his Gentile pound of flesh.

A cavalry of street urchins arrive
‘Hey mister you wanna ride elephant?
You like Ricky Ponting mister? Me Dennis Lilee, very fast.
Come you follow, very fast, quickly’

Ali and his men won’t touch ‘em
it’s love as we run like a pack of dogs
around the corner, across the street
up another into an elephant 12 foot high

knocking pots off second floor balconies
as the kids dance and sing
a black Afghan hand pulls me up
and says in perfect english

so, how do you like my country?

“Beware the age of seventy-three”

plenty of time, plenty of time…

He returned to Rome and drank deep
of wine, theatre and games
killed Domitius Corbulo,
the commander in the east

The delight of young bodies
in the towns of Achaia

In Spain, Galba drills his army
in his seventy-third year.

I spend an afternoon
feasting and lie
cloud sculpting
by a purling creek
when, out of eye’s corner
a red paw darts
into the brambles
fulfilling a nursery tale.

I make my way home
to check on the chooks.

More pieces:
an old black Wolseley
a wicker basket
dandelions and celery
faint now, close to fiction
but it’s there.

In my late 20s
in Lancashire
a remarkable verisimilitude
of that cottage, the tree canopy
and soft sun
I stopped the car
checked my pieces
and it was close
even the celery
but something was missing

maybe now
as then and back then
the original conception
was flawed

now the picture builds again
old on new
new on old
and I recast the pieces.

Sea dog, confidant and scrounger
Who chased the ageing curmudgeon out
Replaced with a laughing ten year old
And set my sights on the sweetest fruit
On the highest limb

Forever thankful

in a history, never exact
the perspective is yours

past the fields of wrong and right
you’re always with you

enjoy your faults
the sun is high for lovers or not

we’re singular souls
where ever you go

you are there

Serious, narcissistic, terrifyingly provident
they brim with latent violence
feeding on honey, grape juice and brown rice
bookshelves of Steppenwolf, Trout Fishing in America, I-Ching
the cat has not eaten meat for six months
now spitting and feral
the girls drift around the store and wait

On sea walls jut
a child’s vision
of battlements and towers
from Polce to Pile Gates
along cobbled lanes
shadows razor cut
wonder had deserted me
until Dubrovnik
your sea walls sound
the depths of my sleep
this kiss of promontory
dance the red white check
sing Adriatic love songs
with you on the walls
of Dubrovnik