wine quotes

written mainly to bump the last entry downwards

these lines will rove but not drill down, honouring

memory but moving through it, um maybe…

worry fucks me up it’s not a buzzword


begun in the office on a squalid wednesday

swimming in a glow of just one kernel of thought

grasped as my car sluices the river fog:

the time you spend alone at a lovers’ house

the first times     absorbing smell, accoutrements,

laundry processes, books

i missed that & why do i keep demarcating


is clarity ever gained by this though &

by afternoon i’m already more conscious

of a slight disinclination to kiss


nobody wants to pay too much attention to intuition

but it’s hard – this seems a clear marker of ‘things’

bubbling   stupidly in each moment i pour wine each evening

nervous to make each occasion a celebration while

only wanting couches & verse & cinematography &

careful touch


so much ‘and’

so much ‘each’


picture me carefully adding people & events

even though the shock of joining you at a table

a laughing last supper of unknown guests still

gives a lemon-acid jolt to the stomach


repeat the mantra that you have a lot: like

the only ever birthday i’ll need


the weekend whimsy of darren’s songline

‘what have i learned?’ feels the opposite of whimsical

as i turn it off & keep doing things – real or imagined

thought hurts, past & still-so-present-tense love

destroys my cadences idk maybe

it’s a good thing, this work becoming

at last understandable even

as you hone relief

structure calm

whittle me away

after time

hello so i’m still in a loop of mental repetition

pronouncing the sounds of your name


wanting to get things exactly right, maybe like

trying to name exact shades, down to the micro-tone:

parasol pink? crepe? book-cover blush?

are certain times gilt & more memorable

are we just running caught in entire vast world of rain

all possible worlds and eye-locks predicted

by weather / mood


back on country he’ll try to avoid a sore throat & be cool

negating the galactic impression of over-eagerness

(cringe-worthy in its vastness) you know, msg-per-day rates

getting too high     instead observe him stuffing that urge

into images, poems, peppermint tea & warmer feelings


so i’ll meet you near the church again (all meetings

should have a memorable gothic façade)

& spelunk out the best coffee in town, objectively

speaking, because experience only comes served in contrasts,

escarpments, wind-speed & skin temperatures


when the wanting is a lot i court it awkwardly


like vintage pre-mixed alcohol in a ghostly shade of lemon

stuff is talismanic: a flavour of lemon more prevalent in 1996

not like today’s ‘lemon’   instead makes sense to ferry away

boxed wine & escape briskly      out-manoeuvre irate locals

plain scurry into nature’s articulation of ‘brisk’


life is performed in-the-round

there is no particular direction you need face

but please effect a giggle just for me & show me

that jaunty smile down the camera lens

as often as forever      in this epoch

crepe pink is so persistent the colour

so non-lemon-like, always solid

soft & gentle

birds draft

you could have cut this with your surroundings & felt

real things, maybe the abandoned train stop imprint

on your roof a freak accident of the lamp’s angle poise

or the spider web gulag around your back shed

or some bed sheets as curtains & a poster for a film

no-one else loves     each real thing numbered


because the title was to be the girl’s i’ve really fallen for

who wore glasses like, really needed them to see

& see it would itself fall naturally into three stanzas, each

with a different pace, a different line-fade:

deliberate, messy, or open-ended


none of you with a father i can picture

soo all three are Luke Perry, the at-time-of-writing

Luke Perry he who has the acting skills to pull the role off

furrowing his brow as he considers optometrist expenses

listed on a paper bill, then raising his eyes over the paper

bill to consider this bf on the threshold

i mean he is unimpressed yet steeled & ready

a denim shirt


um there is just the song of birds instead

& volume of poems on rec we are the latest cartoon

adaptation not faithful to the source text ugh

i cannot see anything so throw on my jughead crown

plan an abrupt ending & effect a jaunt

uneven lines feel uneven

hello welcome to the time of writing framed by a borderline

fantasy of palm trees & green coconut paving


where mangrove theory impresses or imprints i was holding

a static hangover gently amidst sheets


i guess time is a wide-eyed doe for everyone     when we’re fucking

the deepest sensations are plain fleeting when i’m losing friends

i’m gaining stability & look there are bays of smeared moonlight


or smudged radiation? hmm everything a window

on danger & attraction at the same time     mind you

no-one can avoid dread & climax


but like he said i am killing at photovoltaic scrabble with ‘now’

placed as every evening tho cropped for incrimination

you’re the dog we’ve all come to love!

the stinging nestles in & in-jokes

feel sage      a key branding decision


awkward things once thought

can be uttered can become

beautiful not all the time but some

then sentiment elides for my cover-

shot a cracked lamp a recurring game

of lonely landscapes (not to sustain nor

recur) but help it’s ‘pdf’ spoken aloud

no less than three times in a day &

bam no more personifying the years

like it’s 2009 like it’s also monday

in retrospect where it’s twelve dollars

for a pint twelve dollars to

wait for you & think


the scratched wooden pub

can come to be a threat confusing

the past & hammering the present

all images will become exactly

your eyes over glass like a 3D hologram

spied through the stained glass window

i can almost make out the ghost’s

disposition you’ll transition nicely

to a cute role without my involvement

or interest observation is measured

precisely in faded beaker marks

i mean i can write things & edit

then i’ll fall into a picture-like-a-painting

down a geo-cached alley again


it’s an odd thing to delve into. there’s a verse, a chorus, then a middle-8 section (nowhere near the middle), another verse & chorus, a guitar solo then another couple of choruses. it’s also at quite a speed to jam all this in together. is this the way we pleasure ourselves – quickly, partially-effectively, in an altogether non-standard manner? turning the curiosity of attraction into pop?

but for me it was always all about the meaning below the entendre, underneath the sex, the hands reaching but never quite touching. the desperation. i apologise for the mic that couldn’t quite handle what i wanted to do vocally with only one take. but i’ve always been about spitting it out. so to speak or write.


my guitar / yours

there’s more sadness than happiness making up a life. if pressed i’d put the ratio at 70/30. but then maybe some of that 70% is simply emptiness, or boredom. it’s hard to tell. you choose what to remember though. i’ve been watching a lot of long-form tv shows that involve detectives and crime. the lyrics in this track were meant to echo that and use the language as an investigative lens, repeating the images of urgently garbled radio squad car directions, and fervent leading questions posed in stark interview room (usually a green palette). but i don’t think any of that comes through. not really.