February Poetry Dump

Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s the second slab from 2025. All February’s poems…

I seem to have started this thing where at the start of a month I share the previous month’s batch of poems. I’m writing them when and where I can, sharing most of them on this site here, although not always emailing them out to you directly, so instead I gather them all in a ‘dump’ here at the start of each month. Here’s last month’s — the first drop of 2025:

Follow that link back and you’ll get to the rest of the poetry dumps from last year if you’re interested.

Stories are my focus this year, to the poetry will likely slow down across 2025. Well, we’ll see. Here’s what I turned out across February. Let’s see if there’s nothing you like:

---

PM ME:

The Prime Minister of New Zealand
actually said he hadn’t caught up
with the remarks in question…

He left just enough room
for a single bicep curl from his wife
before adding that he would not

have used remarks like those.
You know, the same way we don’t
copy books we have not read,

or would never vote for a bill
we will not support. Nor go on to rort
entitlements not meant for those

that do not need. He stood there
in nervous sweats at the microphone.
But was he really there?

---

TERRITORIAL:

People ripping faces from a photo,
a stray arm still in the picture,
or the full head with scratched-out eyes
and the surprise of the receiver slammed
into next week.These were actual cancellations;

this was the way of an unconnected world.
Now everyone has handed in their data
for the prison stripes of a phone that goes
anywhere, can make payments, change plans,
find places and lose time.

We like to think of all the new efficiencies,
but when you slammed down a phone it was quick,
killing two birds. An arm without owner haunted
the hue of a faded photograph, and we stood, jaded
soldiers, stripped of armour, clutching for honour.

---

HINDSIGHT’s 20:

Joe Pernice helped me discover a lovelier
side of music — a type of power-pop
where the lyrics are doing more work

than the tune. Not often the way in
that sub-genre. I’m trying to be a better
person every day, small improvements

I would hope, whilst uncovering an awareness
of the me that’s always been. A lovelier thing
in this life than knowing it is for living

isn’t something I wish to discover. Someone
speaking at a funeral about how hard
a person worked? Just shoot me. And them.

And put one in the coffin just for measure.
Give it power. Make it pop. Make it about
the lyrics more than it’s ever about the tune.

But make it clear just why we’re here. We did not
come to fuck around is some of the worst advice
in this world. That’s exactly why we’re here.

---

BENEDICTION:

What doesn’t kill you now will
get you in the end. It doesn’t make you stronger,
it only lets you live a bit longer —
so get those time sheets in and hit
the beach, buy the stuff that makes
you happy, keep the people you dig
close or within reach. There is no lesson
here to teach. Life will kill you in the end.

So like Warren Zevon also said, enjoy
the sandwiches you eat and the people
that you meet. None of us
are making it out alive. Use the time
you get to thrive.

---

ART INTIMATES LIFE:

The painting happens at the palette,
that’s the source of the colour —
The painting happens because
of the way we hold the brush.
The same colours exist for all of us,
we have the option to use the same shades,
to tap into the same blues, to share
the same greens. It all comes down
to how we hold the brush.

The purpose we work with, the way
we approach it, the hours at the easel —
you can colour the world in whatever way
you choose, but the approach comes down
to the individual. The one standing up,
the one showing up. The one using
heart, mind, and soul to spread colour
right to the corners, to push into place
all they are, and see, for all they can be.

---

STRAIGHT TIME:

There were times when the weekend would last five days,

but these were not good times at all. Now, weekends fly by,

and it’s back to work for the never ending list of tasks….

And the joy of that routine, beats any four-night bender,

makes a life measured correctly; makes up for the madness

poured out in pint glasses, crumpled like cigarette packets,

stomped on, soggy, sad, broken, lonely, and lost during

daytime hours. Cold winds were blowing, and the world

was confusing. Now it makes enough sense. And so do I.

---

ITS OWN STRAIN:

Academia is its own strain of autism —
that’s just an observation, it’s obviously
not a fact, but just because it’s not yet
ready for peer review doesn’t mean
it’s not true. Emphasis wasn’t even
on the autism, it was actually
on the strain. And for this to go much
further, there’ll need to be two forms
of data collection, several administrators
to send the dozens of email updates,
and a bunch of meetings — all of which
will go through six rounds of rescheduling,
and a pecking order established around
who was busiest and declined the most
meeting requests. The Final Boss awarded,
and their prize: getting to speak
at a conference, with no expense not
spared and all expenses claimed
and coded — because research is key
and academic freedom abounds.
And autism is everywhere. And just
like the academics speaking on panels,
it often presents differently.

---

SHAKE WHAT YA MAMA GAVE YA:

They called her The Rattler and everyone
thought it was for the sting in her tale.
The way with barbed wit, she’d turn
and strike. She was fierce in that way.

But nicknames are funny when they come
from family. In fact, The Rattler shook
doors, almost from their hinges. She held
on tightly. She did not want to let go.

---

ELECTRIC BLUE:

Something about the very last day of primary school sits with me still. I remember being packed up and ready to leave — summer was grinning and Christmas was soon to call. And the walk home felt more freeing than any had before. I was finished here. And would be new to start elsewhere. In that moment, I was nowhere — and it sure felt fantastic. And as I made it up the street to my house, mum was blasting the brand new album by Icehouse, Man of Colours. We could hear it down the street. Other kids still on the walk at that point, said ‘your mum sure likes to play music so everyone can hear it’. I dropped my bag at the door, and jumped into the pool, fully clothed. It was wild to be in this moment. And it’s played over in my head for close to 40 years now. Not in a bad way at all, but not even in a good way. Just in a way. And that is okay. I just freeze. And it’s all over. Until the song gets played again. And again.

---

RE/ORIENTATION:

In my first year at university, I passed
all papers and barely took a note, nor
gave a shit. It was the worst thing

that could happen — and it did.
I majored in complacency the following
year. It was so hard to care. Then

the results came in, and no one
wanted them — I stammered through
new excuses to what in fact were

very old problems. And I would not
wake from the zombie sleep for
a few more years, I never thought

about ending my life, but what might
be worse when you are a very
privileged mess, is that I could

barely give a thought to actually
starting it; cracks there for all to see,
and me just getting plastered

---

I REMEMBER YOU:

I remember your laughter, after I remember
your screaming, while you were dreaming,
and now when I am dreaming (if I’m lucky).

I remember your tears, when I remember
to take down the jar. I remember your bones,
yes that’s where they are! I remember you

most for your mind. Most of the time.
I hope you didn’t mind the way I pulled it
to pieces. I remember your silence,

and how it now lasts forever. I remember
we weren’t ever “technically” together.
I remembered to fix that. And all

of the other things too. I remember to
never forget you. Well, it would be hard.
It’s only right that what is left is

out back in the yard.

---

DARK CHRYSALIS:

Someone wrote me a letter and it ended
with the line from the Elton John song
about the people that keep the sun turned on.

I thought about that all summer:
That letter, that quote, the implication
of me — it was all of that keeping the sun

turned on, while I read books
about everything and wrote poems
about nothing. When I finally felt ready

to ask why she’d finished the letter on that note,
it was clear that the song had been playing,
and the hint that there might be a coincidence

was the hope I held onto as the breeze
shook the tree and then the sun
switched itself off abruptly.

---

PERVERSION OF JUSTICE:

The Pervert has a normal life.
The Pervert had a normal wife.
The Pervert prefers verbal strife.

The Pervert enjoys normal things — but also not so normal too.

Like wearing his three year old’s shoe, sometimes on his head, and often
in bed — and sometimes just to shock, he wears that shoe right on his cock.

The Pervert is not such a bad guy. (Unless you get it in the eye).

Because once he starts it can be hard. To stop. Yes
The Pervert has to stop.

[And that’s an order, yes of course.
That’s an order, from the courts]

The Pervert says to have a happy day.
The Pervert loves to watch you walk away.

And hopes, like he, you’ll come again.

The Pervert remembers when things weren’t so hard.

And he’s just tying to get back there.
Because that’s actually where he wants to be.

---

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Actually, not a bad run of poems — a solid month of producing. Baker’s dozen. And I gave a poetry reading too, which you can hear right here:

And I performed my hour-long show of poems from the book with music:

Which was recorded, and you will be able to hear that soon! Busy month. See you with new poems next month. Will be interesting to see how many I can manage in March.

Meanwhile, let me know if there’s anything you particularly like here, or more so anything you spectacularly don’t like. Thanks for reading.