All the real men


Where have all the real men gone.

Those bronzed statues of history past.

Farrowed, weathered faces.

Strong character, an morals.

Big helping, protecting hands.

Gentle on child.

Feathery, the lady mild.


Where have all the real men gone.

None left to teach what’s Best,

future progeny.

Left, corrupted.

porn, scorn an meth.


Where have all the real men gone.

Those old mates of kinship an friends,

Fighters of fair an go.

Ready to jump, help those in need.

Defenders of under an dog.


Where have all the real men gone.

Just skeletons now.

Even half, men that were.

Mouths of talk an nothing more.

Except to condemn the under an dog.

Kick them in their lodge.


Where have all the real men gone.





En garde, Pret, Allez.

I hold my sword in my hand.
Wield it with skill and precision.
Watching my opponents.
Knowing when to advance,
Slight Attaque au fer to start.
Waiting for that opening.
Position is everything.
Knows well.
There lunge, in vein.
With quick step, yielding parry.
Prise de fer.
Under the intellect of
My pen.
My sword.




“I would love to just jump in a sail boat and just go sailing.”


“Wouldn’t you get lonely.”?


I look south over the waters of Pumistone passage to Bribie Island. The water glistening with reflections. Clouds, hung like curtains above the glass house mountains. Such a peaceful scene. She doesn’t understand the peace I mean. The essence of doing it, being in a far off bay or   anchored off a tropical beach with no one else around. Just you and a beautiful scene. I look upon her beauty. Soft as a rose’s hue. Her hair as golden honey in the spring sun. I curse fate, curse myself. I guess I missed the essence of what I said. Sail to put distance between the end and I. Replace, no avoid, the inevitable. A clean swap, one beauty for another. Where the waters will be filled with personnel reflections from a broken heart. But you will always have a beautiful scene to lift your spirit. And Beautiful moments of remembered love.


“Lonely’s a state of mind. Brought on by wanting to fill the void with people. Why would you want to crowed this scene with uninteresting ugly things that will only get in the way of the view.”


I feel the same about life. I never developed the herd mentality. If it’s not my choice I don’t do it. It grates me that the masses are so easily led. Slave to the routine, the usual. The bland, want fries with that? It seems very few are different enough to catch my eye. Worthy of my friendship. I have no need to fill any void. Well, not yet anyway. But it was coming. The beautiful lady before me, had to hold my face and slap before I took note of her. And like the fool, I let her steal my heart and It was coming back broken. Why. Because I Danced with one so young, Blind to the tight rope we were on. Or just conveniently forgotten, a traitor unto himself. It comes to mind just how pathetic that statement now sounds. Just maybe, that’s what she may think of you. When reality strikes, it hits hard. I knew my demure changed at that moment. It was the end. I felt instantly cold. Nothing was said about our relationship, but at that moment I just knew it was over. I gazed into pure lapis jewels when our eye’s met. Her natural charm shone on her smiling lips. I fell in love with Aphrodite herself, was that not alone worth the heartfelt pain you now feel. I smile back. Indeed, it was.

Retched Shadow

Screenshot (16)Curse this retched shadow.

That mocks my sense of self.

It blocks up my free will an sanity.

Within its hellish depths.

Curse its evil wickedness,

Sending thoughts of gay to grey.

I try to run to lose it,

Between the blue an day.

Its thundering head peaks above,

While I slip over below.

Curse this blight of soul.

This mole/Hag of shadowy evil.

That’s turns a heart of porcelain into

torturous clay.

Curse you retched shadow,

Leave me in peace.

Just for one

Sunny day.



His demons come at night.

Creep up on him at his low.

Horrifying moans an screams to tow.

At what I fear to know.

They torment him,

Ferment him.

In his nightly slumber.

He’s more at peace in the waking hours.

Before the bottle, cause’s him to topple.

Into the abyss of nightmarish twist’s.

He says little of his history.

But hints at the source.

Of hell’s gate keepers and

Their relentless force.

Like bates outta Haiti.

Them banshee screams.

To once again torment

His sordid dreams.

Son of the southern cross




Son of the southern cross


Born beneath its pointed spokes.

Always there.

Thick or thin.

Better than any friend.

Unconditional in its companion.

Ready to point you in direction.

Shining brighter than its bed.

Ready to guard you from

The wrong path.

Its friend to those that

Set eyes upon it.

eternity and true.

As it will never lie.

Heads a sleeping,

It’s a watching.

With its own companions.

The Emu n seven sisters.

As they arch across the southern sky,

Perpetual motion.

Above the commotion of nocturnal spirits,

That wonder nightly across this

Great southern land.