2 Latest Paintings 2025
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Dream Home
Inside there are
books piled upon
books piled on
tables.
Broken calculators
blanket the floor.
Factory beige.
Cracks run underneath.
Insects chatter.
Moss grows.
Dead flowers in black vases
grace midnight windows
under fluorescents strips.
A lurid spectacle.
Dusty mirrors show long neglect.
reflections shunned like criminals.
A staircase descends into darkness
on the other side of a door
torn from its hinges.
All the floors
beneath the floors
and rooms behind
rooms behind walls
change between visits.
A stranger not certain
what they should wear.
Webs in darkened corners.
suggest larger things.
An empty trophy case lingers
at the far wall
crumbling
like a forgotten receipt
in a back pocket.
Close as a buried trauma.
Once the wind gets into this place
things become scattered.
Unmoored.
Once the night comes in
it’s hard to get it out
and it’s hard to understand
why.
At The End Of Our Dream
Mist white as a neighbour’s lie
spooks the immediate field of snapped hay strands
beyond the red-roofed townhomes
-rows of white walls facing down on
yards sloping towards me
sparsely populated by chickens with no heads.
A grey horse with an unruly mane arises
from lying on its side in a side alley
and ambles its way towards me.
It has no face
no eyes no mouth.
As I arrive at the dark sodden earth
of a farmer’s field where the houses ended
I knew that it was the end of the dream as well
and that there would be nothing beyond the tree line
etched into a morosely still overcast.
If I continued onward
I would simply awaken
and that this was what the end would be like
-it was not frightening or sad
but just was
and that in my life when I passed
I would simply be awakening from this dream
-our dream,
and I would end up here
somewhere passed those farmer’s fields.
I would go without struggle and
without ceremony
because this is
how things truly are
beyond the curbs and the lights
and the boxes in which everything has been placed
and carefully labelled.
A figure was approaching
from beyond the trees.
A tall, gaunt shape in no hurry.
It is not time to meet them yet
but they will come
as does the night.
As calm as a still sea.
Turning back I see
that the path had changed
from when I came.
The way back home
is a little longer.
It always is.
Father
In the cold air
In the night
In the yard
Seeing my father out there
standing
facing me
with his eyes closed
He pulls down the
oxygen mask on his face
so that it dangles
below his neck
The hospital gown loosely
hangs onto him
Exposing his white chest
just like I last saw him
“Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for being here.”
He said
and I can still hear it
everyday
in traffic
brushing my teeth
as I lie in bed and wait
for sleep
I didn’t know it at the time
but
those were his last words to me
before the monitors started flashing
the machines started beeping
and the nurses came rushing in
as he closed his eyes
A light switching off
on a living room family portrait
growing increasingly further away
until last words
are all that is left
He says something else now
He says it every day that
I’m here
And I’m trying to but
I still can’t hear it
Over all of this bullshit
that I call myself
but he's always been
standing right in front of me
the whole time.
Health Check
The good doctor placed a stethoscope on my chest
and listened.
“This is quite irregular,” he said. “You only have half a heartbeat.”
“I know, Doc, I know…” I sighed.
“It’s shrinkflation.
It’s how I feel
about the coming election.
It’s an involuntary response
to the harsh reality of strangers
at the local Stop N’ Go.
It’s been silenced
by woke culture.
It’s been outsourced
downsized
and deregulated.
My dog ate it.
My ex wife and lawyer
had seconds.
It’s been sanctioned by the UN
for my role
In the energy crisis.
It’s in my back pocket
along with a receipt for something
that I cannot return
and a picture
of me with a celebratory blunt
at yet another summit
that wasn’t worth the hike.
How’s my cholesterol?
I Have Let it All Go
A mind like an abandoned factory
A field from which you can hear birds
A blank yellow pad
An empty shell on the beach
A floating seed above the sea
This is how I operate
on a good day
on a bright day
on a clear day;
weightless
and joyful
-a nitrogen balloon.
I wander between
voids filled with
industrial noise
as a ghost from childhood
always there
and never
but
calmly tucked
into a soothing respite like
wind chimes
beyond the freeway or
a dark bedroom window.
I have let it all go.
I am a quiet place now.
Moment
No matter how fast
you can’t catch it.
No matter how strong
you can’t lift it.
You can’t bottle it
You can’t measure it.
You can’t change it
and you can’t fix it.
But you can hold it
as long as you want to.
Some people
never let it go.
Like me.
So many times I
could have done it
differently.
So many moments
that I never left.
Things and People and Pets
It catches up to you
over time
-the accumulation of things and people
and pets.
It just happens.
They spring up out of nowhere
like dirty habits
and Walmarts.
When you eventually own a home
some kids would be running around it.
They might even be yours.
No, you don’t know their names.
That’s what your wife was for
(Martha, wasn’t it?).
There may be a cat sauntering about
‘OMG THERE’S A FUCKING CAT!!’
‘We’ve had Buster for ten years.’ Your wife (Martha?) would say.
You look in the driveway.
There used to be one car.
Now there’s four.
Why do we need so many cars?
Why does the fridge have a screen
and the gerbil an Instagram account?
All these questions need answers!
And problems solutions!
But you don’t get solutions
even when you pay for them.
You only get more problems.
Things start to move too fast.
It becomes disorientating.
debilitating.
Suddenly you’re a tortoise
without a shell and it may
be best to hide in the basement
until this all blows over
in twenty years.
Introspection
The head sinks
and disappears
between the shoulders.
The mind recedes into
a dark empty garage.
The hands freeze into fists
involuntarily and
legs threaten to abandon
the body.
The world becomes
all concrete and clowns.
Where is peace?
Where is your soul
but at home?
Just remember that
after you close and lock
the front door
shutter all the windows
pull down
the shades.
After you dim the lights
turn off the television
the radio and
close your eyes
upon the world
and yourself in it:
people
places
things
they never truly stop
bothering you.
Even when you’re alone.
Especially when you’re alone.
The door never fully
closes.
It all gets in
somehow
and stays there.
Lingering
across time and space
like dust in sunlight.
Love in Your Heart
A rusted tractor in a forest.
A faded plastic toy
on a stranger’s lawn.
A twisted bicycle frame in a creek.
A kite in a tree.
A rose pedal in the sewer.
Love in your heart.