with bowed head, love and hands pressed together

I have no real interest in flicking out rhyme

Or tangled verses, prostrating




Over again

The intricacies of language

I have no real interest in getting you here

Or having my words drum themselves into your mind

I care very little for your interpretations

Your attachments



That you might place upon me in order to place me into your significant understanding of what poetry should be

If I write or speak for anything

It is in the hope to transcend this

In the hope to tie up and bring an end to


So I strip it down

Sieve it

Spell it out in colourful children’s letter blocks

There is only one ear to which I speak

Only one I for which i write

There is a saying, which can be hard to fathom

If you meet a Buddha on the road, then kill ‘im


If you hear a poet speak a line and it sounds like something akin to the beating of your heart…. Then eat… it… out

I’m only ever here so you can hear your self think