Infatuations, adapted from full poem here—
When the world was flat,
I was lost in a dream
that was not my own,
in a mistaken reality.
Tag Archives: visual_evo_engine
grander compass
Grander Compass (abridged above). Full poem here—
This we do, we humans—
we imagine a grander compass,
a glorious context for the quotidian
around us: passages to the underworld,
gateways to the lost monuments
of paradise.
o’connell street passengers
Latest news: Texture of Silence illustrations have made the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA) Longlist for Best Artwork.
The waves that once washed along
O’Connell Street have taken the bus
south to Cronulla. Although they paid
their fare, the other passengers
complained loudly, and not a few
disembarked.
The Everwind
Poetry The Everwind and artwork x 4 from the Beyond AI Project, powered by the Visual Evolution Engine.
Coming soon, “Texture of Silence.” Info below.
silver days
Long ago, there were castles
carved of ice in the frozen South.
Auroral fireworks flowered
from their ramparts,
and rained liquid silverlight
into shadows to equalise
the darkness.
across the street
My story “The Beautiful Horizon” in The Purpose of Reality: Solar has been shortlisted for the 2022 Aurealis Awards in the Fantasy Short Story Category. Info about The Purpose of Reality collections below.
They’ve built a block of apartments
across the street, all the way along.
My neighbors over there had to vacate,
but I heard a little wailing
beneath the motors’ roar
when the night machines
ground their houses to gravel.
curriculum vitae
In my youth, I pored over arcane
manuscripts, in the vain belief
that I could comprehend
their mysteries.
the approximist
He won a prize at the Marimbondo Circus,
proxime accessit, said that he treasured it,
more or less.
Compasses and crossroads
confused him, and he couldn’t tell
the narrator from the narratee.
the amazonian
The skyward myths, the poppy-field poets,
have vanished, the inexpressible
has evanesced above the tar pits
like the long-lost Brachiosauridae,
and in the cities, all that’s left is
Amazon and online dreams.
inexpressible
The Purpose of Reality illustrated short story and poetry collections from Meerkat Press, with pretty fair reviews from Publishers Weekly and the like, now available on Amazon and at other outlets, click for details including reviews.
“It’s time to write in the first person,”
he declared, “no more
of the inconsequential,
the vaporous, the bland quotidian.”
beyond the glass
The Purpose of Reality illustrated short story and poetry volumes from Meerkat Press, with fair reviews from Publishers Weekly and the like, now available on Amazon and at other outlets, click for details including reviews.
Beyond the glass, the water birds
are gliding on the rails of rain,
and, for a moment,
their distant pattering melody
recalls a semblance
of another chance
at hopefulness—even with
the knowing that it’s far too late
for all of that.
the snow globe
I know time turns without me,
forever leaving me behind.
May I pass unseen,
unnoticed day by day.
May Jakaíra, the Queen of Mist,
wrap me in her clouds.
ten hours
I cannot comprehend the thinking of others,
their symbolics and demarcations,
dressed in their effete stigmata,
flowing in Babel’s river
to the sea.
the quiet hours
The rain was running late, still pattering
on the muddy puddles of the city sky,
and the street was smeared with cloud
star-ridden with mercury lamps—
a world as dreary as long-lost
infatuation, as a friend’s anger,
as empty jealousy.
Like a moth attracted
to the flickers of fluorescent lights,
I chose a frayed café where
my dairy-whitened instant coffee
with artificial sweetener
—all its chemical delights—
put me in the writing mood.
Blade Walker’s plan
Previously on Blade Walker: the earth is inhabited by extraterrestrials, who are minding the planet after humans failed in their duty of care. Blade Walker (human) and Alícia (alien) are having coffee at one of the Café Économique franchises. The first episode is here.
It was all the usual at the Café:
an earthenware urn of tired umbrellas,
sprouting branches and plastic flowers,
tattered pigeons hoping for a snack;
at the other tables, Saurons sipping bluegas,
the odd Solarian, naturally luminous,
and sentient crustacea on a break
from breaking crockery.
wind castles
I read a little of “Howe to Writte”
by someone called Blade Walker:
Do not write about yourself,
you might scribble regrettable revelations:
poisonous reflections of venomous memory,
elaborations of fears unfounded,
of solitude without solace.