If my body is a machine and my mind is a computer
then I am

A blockhead whose big bang
was an ejaculation of new and improved sailors
under the white flag of a snared goddess
after the pounding in of fast calculations
in an air of whispers where numbers control language
because language breaks down into formulae
formula consists of numbers
so numbers can form language
repeated in a loop of circular arguments
degenerated by the inevitable occurrence of error
until I become the machine I was told I am

I jam the material fate until I can spread it thin
Over white bread, void of nutrition, so I burn it black,
Until good and cancerous
Media made me stop worrying about cancer when I was a kid
Since preservatives, city fumes, fast food, tap water, burnt toast
And long walks on the beach can give you cancer
are you still smoking?
In spite of the sickening image of an emphysema lung
On an Australian ciggie pack.
I’ve been to autopsies and no healthy lung look
As pristine and smooth as the one on that ciggie pack
Makes me wonder what healthy little bush kid
They took the sample from

My point is that
If my body is a machine and my mind is a computer
Then why do

I live for small moments of serenity
Walking along a secluded patch of Tiari beach
so full of shells they crush under your feet with a sound of shattering glass
the waves rumbling a stones throw away from the rolled up walls
of a canvas house tent
or the yellow-red haze of a cloud hugging the ground at sunset
because Mary could not see my red
my red was her grey tone labelled red
each label she had studied closely
so she could learn the trick of seeing red





boil Yam until the sweet is in the water
and the God of the Arabian sea brings on the chaos
and I can mash the substance of African roots into my own
and only dream of ploughing my own fields
and stumble upon the forgotten city of Ugarit
my field has been reduced to a leased patch
bordered by tarmac driveways and peeping neighbours
I have a garden
Of herbs growing by the toilet drain
I would move it but this is not really my field
I am one step away from claiming it
But the government ripped the ground from under my feet
Only one step away from surfacing
And now the vulture bureaucrats are eating
Off my back, pecking into my pack and clothes
The jabs are sort of dull now, I’ll feel it when they break through
When they touch the skin
I tend to my miniscule suburban garden
Listening to seams break in melodic twangs