LET YOUR HEART DANCE – from Honeydew

I fell in love the first time we danced - an uncoordinated
cack-handed avalanche. You bounced over on the balls 
of your fine feet and climbed on, staying put, as coy as a well-heeled 
sassy lap dancer. My heart started drumming a repetitive beat, 

marvellous manic melody. I was blinded by your groovy 
glistening glitterball eyes. Felt the fever of your twinkling 
Travolta smile. I took the lead resembling a playful lovelorn 
puppy. My first left foot kicked my second left foot and we began 

to get busy, tumbling toward one another. Shaking, rattling 
and rolling, upsetting the rhythm with our rudeness. Showing little
regard for tempo or decorum, neglecting our manners, 
we made our own moves as I pulled you 

close. Beating up the upbeat as we wrestled and submitted 
to an arse pinching smoochathon. We crashed the party, burning 
up the rave, intensifying the heat of the latest sizzling tunes. 
Gyrated like an uninhibited spin dryer on its last 

legs until I buckled against your vibrating 
thighs. The lasting effect of our disco damage choreographed 
the steps of our destiny. As we gasped
without resting and kissed without breathing and fell without landing.


WHATS LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT? - from The machinery of life

Love has everything to do with us
.As I step over your piles of derelict clothes and wonder…
When you abandon a sorry looking
tea bag on the side, never mind
the stains.     As I snuffle.
When I perform
like a draining squirt or regular stand up.

The times I just…. Well just don’t….
On occasions. When we are both pissed. Those days
it is all down to me, certainly not you. When I forget sweet, running
on empty. How about when you just don’t make sense.
When we cry. When our hold is like Locktite.
As the morning peeps and amazes us,
evenings as we sink into comfort, one.

Hearing each other, telling it like it is after we neglect.
When you are there and I am somewhere else.
When you are happy, and always
when you are at ease!

COUNTDOWN TO DESTINY – from The fortune teller’s yarn

Milo rests. Twelve minutes to destiny.
Broken hipster, skinny dipping
in the ebb and flow of chaotic life.
Pondering the combined blood light 
cast from a rogue Roman candle, a spinning
smash bomb and exploding black oaks,
all casting netherworld shadows.

Milo moseys. Seven minutes to destiny.
Hounding the cat lady who is farmed and dangerous.
He stumbles and tumbles into crash space,
landing on the fringes of Sawdust City,
splashed with old preserve.

Milo is stuck fast in the slipstream of an art deco hangover, smiling 
at the full extent
of childlike squeeze play. Three minutes to destiny.
Feeling the force of brimstone and hammer bent. 
Expertly pronouncing other people’s sexuality.

Milo wears a leatherette smudge. Mincing, 
two minutes to destiny.
Pruning a resolution hibiscus. Finds a hair in the mailbox
and proclaims the changeling.

Thirty-one seconds 
to destiny. Milo
flaunts crass words hidden under Sputnik stencils.
Lugs his rusty sledge toward the deviance of the forked river. 

Seventeen seconds to destiny.
Winner!

Milo prepares his hazy halo. Less than a blink to …

PSYKICK DANCEHALL – from The fall of the repetitive mixtape

Mystic community announcements 
on a clairvoyant public address system.
No need for old style reportage.
Sound of the young school disco blunder resonates
from trusted speakers, carried in the air from way beyond.  
The dancehall opens
to those who can feel the vibe,
sense what cannot be heard.
Pseudo dancers clock up miles in inexplicable
ways, local rascals strangle the shortwave.
Ribbons of extreme extrasensory perception
transmit vintage vibes, mysterious music hall, 
can-can dancers, good old days. 
Pontoon whistles reflect mirror ball beats and the 
in crowd wonder
is there anybody there? 

BACK