December 29, 2009


Ignoring clockwork towns and fertile farms
Tied to the sun-swing as the seas to moon,
They searched for verse in deserts without rhyme,
Lifted erratic rocks nonrhythmically
In search of poetry, then through the slough
Of their emotions hunted for a trail:

“The scent is cold. Its Spirit must have fled;
The body of its work, though dead,
Has been translated to some higher plane.
Look how the world’s translated verse
Comes to us plain—why can’t we emulate?
Then if the words themselves are unimportant,
If poetry in essence is idea,
And song is wrong,
Rhyme a superfluous flamboyance
(Like colour to Van Gogh),
Rhythm a distraction to the memoring mind,
Then we determine poetry’s true form is mime!”

While in the air the deafening blare
Confounds their silence everywhere:
Before our hearts began to beat
We were conceived in rhythmic heat;
So, billions strong, we sing along
For all the time, in time, our time, the song
Goes rocking on in rhythmic rhyme. Rock on!

Published online: Snakeskin, UK, September 2009

March 18, 2009

ABNA Review of 'The Gospel According to the Roman Occupation'

My novel about Jesus from the point of view of the Roman occupation of Palestine made it to the Quarterfinals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award (ABNA) competition.

In ABNA, the first 18 pages of the book had two professional reviews, both excellent. Here is one:

"This is exceptionally erudite, flawless, and subversively delicious. The author blends an almost vicious comedy to some serious history for a compelling historical fiction. The characters are richly drawn, the narrative fierce, muscular, compelling. The author has mastery of prose and story and knows how to mold the English language into an empire of a story. The action and dialogue move the story forward as well as develop the characters. The setting is atmospheric with the era pitch perfect. This is a story I would like to read in full."

Oh well. I'll try again in 2010...

February 21, 2009


So listen now to what the prophet saith,
He teaches anything, he gladly learns,
He follows scientists and what they say,
And now, Philosophy of DNA
Regard the spiral of it as it turns,
And listen now to what the prophet saith:
The two as one, entwining intercourse,
Then separate from toes to very head,
And, separated, seek another bed,
Their separation procreation’s cause.
So listen now to what the prophet saith—
And this the canniballed male spider learns,
Eaten by her, as her he’d try to lay,
Who procreates in separation’s day—
No spark of love or life or hate there burns,
But, listen now to what the prophet saith,
Only a life of procreating death.
Published in Metverse Muse, India, March 2009

February 14, 2009


I want to fingerprint you
All over.
I want to fingerpaint you
All over.
I want to finger you, finger you,
Linger and lingua you,
Finger you everywhere,
Everyhow, everywho,
Finger you, all of you,
Paint and imprint on you,
All of all over.

Published: Shit Creek Review, US, Sept-Oct 2008

February 7, 2009


Utterly subtly,
Sinuous Cindylee
Slyly and shyly ties
Knots in my life;
Claiming to operate
Cuts through my heart like a
Butter through knife.
Published online: Snakeskin, UK, January 2009

January 31, 2009


Quick foot, soft smile, soft voice, soft form -
Come back to the house before we get the summer storm.

Soft step, slim form, slow smile, sleep-warm -
Wet foot in the garden, let me wrap you in the dawn.

Published online: Snakeskin, UK, October 2008

January 24, 2009


The correct thing to do, when you’re dead,
Is have someone take care of your head;
There’s no chance of more drama
Without Futurama -
Don’t say you weren’t warned - act, instead.

Published online: Transhumanity, US, November 2005

January 17, 2009


I love you with that love floppy and large,
As one of us a man - the other, dog;
Involved, detached, our life's a travelogue
Of countrysides seen from a rented barge,
"Travels With You" along some river's marge,
Failing at interspecies dialogue
Till tries at talk are lost in night and fog,
Drifting with batteries we can't recharge.

Yet there's no option but to travel on,
Each varied day no different than before,
Wondering if we'll find some magic door
Which, risking entry, gives communion;
And if, by talking, love would be enhanced,
Or if we'd then destroy all we have chanced.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2007

January 10, 2009


Purple voices, rich and rare,
Glowing in the jeweled air,
Handling esoteric themes,
Mysteries like running streams
Dammed with unexpected care
Into almost-answered prayer
Where you’d think no calmness could
In the wildest of the wood.
Thoughts and unknown meanings dance,
Wordwise weave you in a trance,
Darkly glowing, rich and rare,
Purple voices, glowing air.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, April 2006

January 3, 2009


The light in your eyes is as the sun rising behind mountains in a cloudless sky.
Your smile is like the first rain falling on desert land.
The memory of you is like a long-forgotten childhood song.
Your wisdom is like a fresh breeze springing up, slapping slack ropes against their masts.
Your being gives the seasons to my life.
If you should ever go, and take the sun and rain, the breezes and my youth,
I’d sit in the dark cave of my heart, feeling its dry walls crumble into dust.

Published: Candelabrum, UK, October 2006