Utopia at ten thirty am

There is one single minute in the late morning

that mankind can be loved during.

It comes around ten thirty when the air is light and creamy

and the city is awake

but it’s not hungry yet.

The children are set to work with men

the sounds the machines squeak are earnest

and the human device becomes beauty.


Utopia is born.


Come ten thirty one,

a shadow shifts to the morning

and crows take over everything



Eden can only live a minute.


Image by Laurent Van Assche


Midnight man in Bambalapitiya: part 3

Was that you inside your face?
You said you had a name,
but it wasn’t Midnight.
Carrying a house on back you said
you’re going to build a shack on promised land – it was free,
and it’ll have a wife and windows facing the sunset,
coloured walls, a bed and other sensible things.
You’ve remembered you have a son, who also has a little son-
I guess breeding makes sense
because when there are no more empty spaces left
you never have to look at yourself again.
I wanted to ask why, but it’s a wolfish world
and asking why is rude and unwarranted.
So I said I’ll come visit you sometime.
I went left and you went right.
The city moaned in smoke, heat and honks
and under my feet the earth shook
because somewhere, somehow a saint had died.  


Image – Chris Burden



Enough sweet nothings

Enough sweet nothings,

it’s lame.

Enough falling deep,

no one does it anymore.

No more fighting, it’s untame.

No more going strange places

or feeling new things

like complicates mixes-

emotions that are oxymorons.

It’s old,

no one is here.

Move on.  


Picture - Mikhael Subotzky

Picture – Mikhael Subotzky


Making things up

It’s remarkable

how far we go

to make glorious, memorable dust.

It’s incredible how much we give

to feel big enough to laugh,

for an arrangement worth saving

pixels for a while.

It’s funny -in a very broad sense-

how sweet we are to believe what we make.

It’s only natural, we have to get by;

it’s harder to choose and end it, because

what if…

What’s stupendous is how all this-



golden evenings,


things hearts can do-

all this fanatical whole,

this evermore,

is just for us to chance upon,

rapture in and dismember

as if

it cost nothing, no time, no love, at all.  

Duane Michals The Human Condition

Duane Michals The Human Condition


Name calling

Names engraved


on newborn skin

by people afraid;

of dust,

of death,

of free falling,

of not knowing,

of forgetting,

of disintegrating,

of vagabonds,

of night skies,

of closed eyes,

of too wild,

of too dark,

of sadness,

of purposelessness,

of loose holds,

of holes- both black and soul,

of new,

of orphans,

of bad PR,

of empty houses,

of vast plains,

of deep lakes,

of little idle lanes,

of nothing short of paradise;

and of allowing that we never meant more-

or less for that matter.


Picture by Lori Nix

Picture by Lori Nix



Our celebrities reflect us; our vices, idiocies, imagined glories, sadnesses and infantile costumes for ourselves. They are us – our own selves caught shining in the obscenity of a warped mirror, a thousand times uglier than our better selves.

For Example -photography by Monika Traikov

For Example -photography by Monika Traikov


Opaque children

Children of the earth –

opaque, grave and dreamless,

sitting heavy, hard and oblivious

to the free fantasy drifting in the air.

Children of the earth,

in the everyday brash,

passing through the wistful mist

never knowing that the whole world has died

for that moment alive.    

Photo by Helen Sear

Photo by Helen Sear