from the notebook (11th nov 2010)

how good it feels
to stuff
the cabbage
I've tattooed
a squint
of humour
below yr nipple

watch this space
my fingers
touch celestial
Concrete Pier (Trieste, Italy)

across from the Piazza Unita
on a metal mushroom
teenagers in shaggy
sit on a concrete
looking out over
light and ripples
bora gone quiet
a circle of blue lights from steady traffic
i write with neon
green pen
ipod shuffle spinning in my ear
this is dog heaven
my mouth is dry
I've no Italian
no major meltdowns
have metamorphosis
habit bad
I've forgotten the date
for thanks-
mornings serve nerves
this is the history
of punking poems into existence
ready to blow
into the empty spill
if you go ahead
and ask

cut moon, silvered
sick uhl
you're all
I've got
Dog Park (Trieste, Italy)

lattice work all
I keep a lighter
in my pocket
my bowels full
on coffee and water
ipod still spinning
I'm ignoring yr doggy heaven
I've skipped a page
the leaves are mulching
I can see my breath
heaven to Betsy
the voices you know
wouldn't say yes
wouldn't say no
whatcha wanna do with
this wheel of history
I'm a night sniffer
a light sleeper
the voices
you know
commune di Trieste
come on
I'm still shooting
my wads
all my kind
they come
and go
come and go