She writes notes on plain paper

to send to her lover


and tells me I don’t Communicate

She sends flowers by interflora

to another

an ex lover

and tells me I don’t Communicate

She leaves messages in Lipstick

to herself on the mirror

her real lover

and tells me I don’t Communicate

She screams at me

2 in the morning

a sometime lover

and tells me I don’t Communicate

I tell her to fuck off

Get the fuck out of my life

She’s a lousy lover

and I can’t Communicate?

I feel like I’m living


love is good

lust kicks in

beauty swims by

sunshine warms me

dawns grow in a corner of the sky

cover the ice in blue flame

cicadas wake me

horizons glow red at night

food happens

my shoes fit

Sam the dog barks

waves break right

or left

money gets paid

on time

in time

for my time

gin n’ tonic is cold

lemon just-so bitter

underwear don’t ride

trees sound like rain

grass sweet against my teeth

old friends call

traffic flowing

lights all on green

courtesy given


mist over the ocean

yachts reflected still

herons fishing

sweet latte & good company

beer and humour

music from the centuries

I’ve lived

dancing like a mad thing

for the glory of it

baby gurgles

soft hands

big as my finger

first words

from all the above

and YOU

Can I ask a question?

she says

and doesn’t notice

she already has

if I died

would you live with someone again?

and that’s not a question

more a minefield


I say no

loving once is enough for me

and she smiles

a crooked smile

and I know now

an answer to a question

I never knew to ask


whether I answered truthfully

may only be answered

by time

& then I spoil it

the truth of it is

the most rotten trick we have

is that we get you to love us

& then we die first

not now

when you are young

but in your late sixties

maybe seventies

& starting over



I figure it out


not to call her

writing myself notes

to hang near ‘phones


and I’m good

but then

of course she calls me

I try for polite



she notices

asks what’s up

and I can’t

don’t want to tell

feeling my resolve melt

insides wearied again


I think


few more months of this

Sartre was wrong

Hell is not others

it is being me

at the end

the doing

of this shit

don’t change

no matter the situation

you don’t change

I say

he looks blank

has nothing to say

has brought nothing

no conversation

to this party

a mute flying Dutchman

sailing through

leaving no trace

so what do you do?


he replies


& I’m wondering


just how

does a body

do nothing?

when everything is on offer

all it needs is the taking

reaching out


he doesn’t change

I don’t change

& I wonder

will we ever