We are older than our mothers and fathers

Always beyond and before conception


yes, we are our own porous ancestors

shells who come to only process occurrences


no longer concurrent with the course

of this eternal song-bird of moment


We are swollen in our borrowed homes


Oceans longing but swallowed

up in shorelines and bones


Cosmoses hollowed through closed palms

and still opened sockets


Buoyant colours and souls, lost

through un-enigmatic tongues and throats


Dilations of current and voice, narrowed

and foreshortened, paused

by the jaundice of the wrong thought

or word choice.


Trapped by mapwork

and palsied by our own distortions,

comforts and love of



enough of the half-heard world


we are born more than our own

and come to forget


we share language with the world

in a single, effortless gesture of breath

Song Of The Dung Beetle


Begin the curve of the world

you become


Stretch and roll out the land

into a little continual womb

on which to dance

and discover


a laughing elasticity

to circumference.


Upside down balance



Legs translate the muttering

of stars effortless touch


Synchronise solar sighs

into straight paths


Do not ask, there is no code

but course, the disembodied voice

of cosmos


Organism sing whole

the scatterings of continent


Dew settle restless into

collective sediment


and let setting sweat




One must mix gravel and grit

in the round gut of a drum

mortal must help shape

the colour brown,


Rib the night with wind

whipped stick, the mixture

will soon sit quick – smooth

the roof over our cool dark pit,

plaster the dome walls and still the heat –

a gourd – this hut of skin, flesh and/organ

will wrinkle and crack in umbels of light,


peaking its head like a worm

does the splits, we drift

and move along as morning, learn

the soft turbulence of soil, become

the tuberous fold of the world’s home


Rolling and tumbling

tumbling and rolling

loosen like surf


Journey man – Journey bug – Nomad

and astronomer, carry what you cannot

and unravel unstable as song

the remainders of the longest beyond


Rolling and tumbling


tumbling and rolling


travel like surf


You passage of earth



Termites furrow and tunnel

blindly woven webs, networks

branch underground


The mound becomes

a mountain

and rain returns us

back to the ground



Go around,


Disturb the Ant lion

and fall into its curse

collapse curvature

and wall in

on itself


let the circle

get caught – open



Sun sunk and gone

sun sunk and gone a’

runnin n a’ jumpin – archin’

like a blue striped marlin


parts water to come back –


a boomerang ping-ponging

in action.


Shit son,

sun don’t know how to act


It’s a scab, a shell

a flesh-

less cuttlefish. Washed

up urchin orb

drawing into the shore


The law of tomorrow


crawl out. Glance


Have no choice

but to leave your body there


and start the dance again


The turning tide will bring

away the incessance

of daylight

Towards A Metaphysician’s Paradise


O atomless ancestor, unending

gesture of genesis

you action

that descends doubtless

upon the highest heaven


you chance

of enlightenment

and silence – all-at-once-

plunge of nothingness


you rest in loudest tempest

and acrobat of expansion, dwell-

er of becoming


lay your way in waves

your wake is a snake

laid in layers of waking


disentangle and form, you

figureless symbol, unhinge,

blind opening of angle,


you alchemical throw that turns

the skimming stone into an archipelago,

drums and lips, spills and distinguishes

this pellucid metamorphosis


yes you, residuum of creation

must be heard in imagination

the blossoming frond

and the tendril that curls,


the purr of wave and waterfall,

the dreamtime you arise behind


you astronaut of the ocean

and submarine of sky,

you sea of sun and mountain

of clustered vapour,


you alembic angel, condensing

sensation of dispersal, essential



resolve, you shy – interjecting phenomenon


lonely listener in the midday anemone

of moon, interloper, here welcome

to answer the needless ticking

of speech and indecision


oh, you ongoing project-

ion of the poem, motion after which I

fumble for – the onward roll

of afternoon


toward possible


and the getting there

of nightfall coming

together a-



The answer


always forming