Her stern copper face looks down on me,
Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi’s mother?
On closer inspection, can’t help but feel
That this is the Frenchman’s mad brother.

Bearing the torch and tabula ansata,
He invokes the chain of a broken law.
I am enlightened today –
Libertas is male: in shock but not awe.



Woman’s World


In the branded supermarket, about to pick up the laundry detergent, he glanced at a face he knew. Long time no see! How are you? Tell me about it, she replied. I’m alright you know. How are you? Managing affairs as we do he said. Her trolley rammed with food and sundries and his plastic basket minimal, they faced each other and began to chat as people went about their shopping.

Do you see anyone from school? Do you still go clubbing? How is work? How are the kids? Girls or boys? 3 boys she said. They can cook, wash dishes, dust and polish, hoover… they never have to rely on a woman. That’s excellent he nodded but she sighed.

To be honest, my eldest son’s girlfriend just sits down. He does all the work. Cooks, cleans, even irons. I can’t believe it. I didn’t grow my son up to…

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ten o’clock blues

summer is drifting
the clock strikes ten
and the cock crowed three times
through the window

i watch this media outlet
break with the story
the other other media outlet
is breaking –

the strife rampages
through the newsreel
easing in a blues dampened
by a few minutes of sport
(and a buoyant end)

a cat got stuck up a tree
in a leafy part of town
out of the branches
she was coaxed
by a smiling fireman

the small crowd cheered
the camera zoomed down:

“join us tomorrow evening”
the presenter beamed.

“good night.”

don’t mention guns today


she steps over the crimson line
security guard swipes her
with metal detector.

tiny fingers retrieve
flowery pink pencil case
and her peers skip along

the narrow corridor
submerging into the classroom
where the history teacher

sits at the whiteboard.
resistant door clunked shut
and sealed them in.


This is America: https://www.vox.com/policy-and-politics/2018/2/16/17016382/school-shooting-drills-training

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it’s lunchtime.

they sit at a small round table waiting for the quenelles de brochets served with sauce mousseline. the restaurant is quiet. the waiter strolls over pleasantly placing meager plates before them.

how beautiful it looks she said. you’re right said her friend as he shoved the android into her chest. now this will look brill on my Instagram – snap the picture he said.

tearing his mouth open wide, porcelain veneers gleaming, she pressed the screen and that fake shutter sound captured the food going cold. the waiter had already walked off.

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a cruel lesson


blue planet beams into my room
via the television. i am no expert
on what is under the oceans but
i am learning migration routes

of whales & spinner dolphins –
& see a dumbo octopus unearthed,
never captured on film before.
70% covered by sea there’s

a lot of death going on.
the giant trevally launched out
of the water & snatched
a fledgling tern, snapping

back under before eating it.
ever seen a fish kill a bird?
strange world.
my daughter enters the room

& asks
is it fish & chips tonight?
i agree. can taste that cod
on my palate already.

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a stolen hour


i disembark from the hot desk,
the din of voices & ringing phones.

snatching my jacket i trot down
winding stairs secreting

from the municipal building.
the public square i speed along

not noticing the obelisk today.
making way to parsonage gardens

surrounded by terracotta houses,
i place myself at the picnic table

then expedite 20 minutes left
before arching back.

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