Typed Music


I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.


81. Stone's Throw

we come down from the mountains

Like cautionary tales, or avalanches, or weird magic.

but we’re not,

we are

closed palms,


fisted petals of skin

more than that

we boulder in,

shoulder in

all sleepless nights and nappies


stone mason asks himself            where to strike the tool?

he chisels

prises open the forehead

wonders what to put inside

stirs it with the spoon from his morning tea

unlocks the foetal fingers

whittles us into our rind

our future


an infant sun does more than discolour

the grit of us

it peels away layers

of orange peel smiles



like milk teeth

the tokens of possibility are plucked

from our jaws




and when the rain turns acidy

with muddled teen bitchiness it questions           what can I throw away?

takes a gouge and a mallet

to the wounded parts

strokes the crust finer beneath:



tracing paper


ice brings with it a tragedy

a door that slams



shatters us open with its finality

swells us until we

split like unkempt finger nails

and hair


sea wonders      what do I do with you, little stone?

so we search for the forehead

and all its caffeine stains,

realise we’re no longer the same shape

no longer all present

let the waves cleanse us beige

hoop us into paradox

ripple us into creases

like toes dripped too long

beneath a tap


they divvy us up when we get tired,

the other rocks,

those granite cliffs

they bear their teeth and their meat cleavers

reduce us


the off-cuts

sell something simpler back to the sea


We lose ourselves on the beaches

gravel-spit or maybe sand

ground too high above the breakwaters

settle there, drown between the fishes

but perchance some little limestone child

might someday put us in a bucket

carry us to the tide

and teach us to swim again



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