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Victory Hill 2050

Beneath primrose and violet sunscreens

vibrant passions bloom and wilt in some

patterned, noxious routine.

The fraternity lies athwart the boundary line,

lounging in heavy boulder sun-scape,

all in white except one, in green and black,

takes stick and slander with good heart,

gives as good as handed out.

I rise and stretch from the hearty crowd,

and slip up slanted turf,...

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Thought you'd want to meet me here,

a scion of Clint, Randolph and the boys,

a dirt speck on 1950s celluloid,

thought you'd want to meet me here,

a grin and laugh mired in static,

a rusty nail and worn-through rope,

a tired actor and a removal van,

outside, teetering on the kerb,


yeah thought you'd want to meet me here,

a long way fro...

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Colour Arts

Swimming in cycles, I pattern an air;

dash, cross, the mimes of meeting,

they are a crime and I am a road-side

mottled hard, cracked paving,

the worse for wear, but a red light

lights my eye and guides my thought,

a spark in a second, a buzzing phone.

I throw out dust and paper, reels of film

sun-baked, reeling, cracked,

replace with seconds from the fountain,

hiding ...

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writer's blockNew New


Hand in hand we walk

in a darkness carved from light,

the plastic trees surround

bottle-green, shadowed props.

Granting me light to see words by,

you count my vapour in the air,

the lingering space of hollow thought,

my burning questions left to float.


Later I will raise a hand and place it,

solid on a high glass wall;

from the floodlit boundary line,

there I ...

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With just enough light in the sky to take out

the newspapers of yesterday

and arrange them, padding in

the galvanised bin;

smoke twists

in a neighbour's garden -

I cup hand and call,

remark upon the vagaries of the weather

and the recent tree

felled on Cobb Hill.


In response I get a half-turn

and shoulder shrug, grunt

of some approximate affirmative,


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Morning Mass

Foot-torn, the path of leaves.

Dead, borders are green, still.

I am white.  I turn.

I am now looking with paled eyes,

across a broken pit of river

up, above some untidy shack;

the train on the hill climbs,

smoke billows, a raincloud summoned

from beyond.

I turn back and see rows,

of autumn-blushed houses

fall silent on this minute.

You are only a passing mist.


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