The Hunter Gracchus

More hesitant than lost
And entirely aware
Only his fear of battling the present
Makes him unsure of who to displease

“Don’t you envy The Hunter Gracchus?
His misfortune is certain
His ship strays forever
His undoing not his ow..”

Revealing all, his words falter
And a feeble smile
Reassures me of their invalidity
And of what’s to come


If I ask him today

Calm is best found near the ocean
Armstrong’s gritty scat is all one needs
And Ishiguro’s skill is unmatched

But yesterday he was afraid of water
An avowed resident of the dark side of the moon
And none could surpass The Lost Generation

With love for each present
And scorn for each past
In this quest for intransient definitions
He remains wonderfully unsure

The Day Gabo Died

It is 11 am in the morning
And I am flicking through some drawings
And spreadsheets that I know well
When the calendar reminds me
That I need to fill in
My hours of the week

It is a Friday and most of us
Are dressed casually and without care
Even my tight lipped neighbour
Is without a collar today
And talks about drinks and films
Are abound, though insincere

For lunch I pick up a sandwich
And mull over an orange and an apple
Before returning to my desk where
I receive a call about an exciting new offer
Which I ignore and quickly go through a web feed
That has his face on it

I am alone in my room now
The beginning of the summer break
The cupboard lies open and my hands
Excited and unsure
Brush through the titles inside
Before choosing to discover ice

The Way

“This is getting harder now
I’m tired of trees and air and water
I despise nature as much
As it has abandoned me”

My belittling smirks anger him
He returns to his pages
For a bit and then his despair
Comes forth and submits

Beside the small blue lake
With white pages strewn about
His eyes towards mine
And my lips parted in speech

I remind him about
The Red Wheelbarrow