PUBLISHED WORK: 

This Passion

Now is the time to think, to feel,
to love. Why not give them a try?
Nothing can be true, nothing can be real,
except this crash course that you and I
cram into our hearts. After all,
what is this blaze if not overtime
study of how to desire and love,
and get what we deserve?

What we have bided so long
to learn, this passion.

We waited so long to entwine.
So long to realise
what could only ever have been.
So, let’s not waste a further moment,
and only kiss, giggle, and haunt
each other’s tongues, lips, and eyes.

Apostrophe

Inspired by Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone", first published here: https://allpoetry.com/poem/17941728-Apostrophe-by-Oliver-Cocks

Once, you wore your crown of gum leaves,
and sat on a throne of used serviettes

Once, you read Eliot’s Waste Land in
a voice of wistful silver

Once, you stepped into a crowd
yet felt adrift,

lonely as Wordsworth’s cloud
in concrete streets

But now you’ve realised
that life is not what haunted you

Now, you wander,
a pilgrim in denim jeans,

burying nights spent
dreaming of debauchery,

sitting in your bedroom,
ensconced in Bowie and Dylan

Now, you drink all afternoon,
accept your banishment,

and even celebrate it

You’ve at last seen the truth,
behind all the pretty lies

that you mistook for starlight

Now, you dispense with
the jests you made at your expense,

with the apologies you offered for
your good deeds

You excused yourself,
again, again, again,

you atoned for laughing,
begged forgiveness for joy,

but no more

Time was when you would scoff,
and leer, and point, and cry

benzene tears

But the time has come to sit
at the eternal buffet

that is your mind,

rejecting enticements
of priest and king

You’ve taken so much, and
given yet more

But now that there’s nothing left
you have the most to bequeath

Now you’re ready to bare
others’ souls, and bear

your own radiance

Sundrowned

A beach, sea wavesplit

sand shimmering heat

You

You emerge from surf

glistening ocean

You smile, wave

step closer.

Seagulls squeal

Drifting in Birdsong

I stand beneath the bare grey bough,

drifting

in

birdsong. Warbled melodies and rich oblivion make me forget, for one drowsy moment, the

ordered cacophony of life.

Nearby, cars s w e e p past and pedestrians chatter, but I ignore them. It’s funny how

unpremeditated music can resound unheard amid the dimmed din of suburbia, but for now I

am happy simply

to listen

An Australian Summer

Amid ash and smoke, the debris

of illusion, the heaped embers

of denial.

                   The air is tainted

with omen, the sky slathered

in flame and haze, our streets

and cities and parks blasted

by clouds of dust and ash

and fume, yet we carry on,

mice in a blazing dollhouse.

Fledgling

I think of you, as I sit beneath the

sharp-tinctured sky, amid the

rustle of leaves, chirping of birds, and

steady sweep of passing cars. I

think of you, and think of your voice,

your eyes, your face, your graceful

exuberance, your boisterous grace.

Time has passed since we were together:

yet I still remember us being one

forever, never parting until death…

I pass time thus, swooning in memory

and autumn’s pageantry, until,

amid the lilt of a hushed breeze, I

unmoor myself from thought enough

to hear a frantic cheeping, as helpless

as trying to get you back in my life.

I stand up, look in bushes, and find a

downy fledgling bird stranded on the ground,

too young to swim in the sky’s ocean.

I look around. No-one else about: I

need to help this chick, protect it

from cats and the world’s ravages,

find someone to take care of it…

I make to clutch it, ready to think

of you another day, another lifetime.

UNPUBLISHED WORK: 

Of Priests and Prince

I will be priest,
and you will be nun

You will be king,
and I will be Prince

before he became a symbol

No more churches!
No more overblown photoshopping!
No more empires of the coin!
No more glib pop!

The trick to life
is to hold your head high

and soar into the sky’s
fields of generic blue

Or you can just sit down
and not take it

Or, of course, you could
simply rail against

all the decayed pop states
that rule your beloved waves

Because empires preside over
both tunes and life,

so, we could, yes,
simply screech at the turncoats

Or we could seek
that priestly rising,

that will upturn all kings

Either way,
keep, yes, keep

snuggling, because
while the world splinters,

I need just that warmth,
just that rebirthing song

 Moonlit Hour

A night owl hoots

in the timid dark,

as I wander shoeless,

through feeble moonlight