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From "thirsty poems"

auction laundry agent

as I raise my paddle—
why so eager the landscape of beached bric-a-brac to overreach the ideas of the ghoul at rest over his self-penned almanac which invites critique from the magpies pulling upwards from his brain into a worthwhile, for a change, attic adventure.

try as I might I cannot rid the fabric—
when albert pulled the american sound “lever” his wife held his breath for him and in what then took place the mountains gave no clue as to the track of the avalanche which was prohibition to the numbers racket of the flood-green valleys of course.

in the debrief I wept—
the building programme here is fierce pulling through community to units in a full meander of parts to a whole to just parts: like heather does not make a more; like shrimps do not a salad make; like making a sugar and fertiliser bomb is brave. it isn’t.

and in one final
emblem of our
embarrassment as
to the path through
the story to the
whole thing we’ve

been after I
recall the way the
monster picked us off
one by one
and if wed’ve stood to
gether, so still we’d die.

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