Winter Sunrays

They skulk in your shadow
on shoes covered in felt
so as not to make a single sound –

waiting –

for a crack in the pavement –

you trip – a slight twinge
dissipates –

you look up –

the sun slants the clouds,
it’s raining somewhere in the west …

but now the sun shines,
people hug walls,
hints of spring
seep from the luke warm radiance
left by the decay of winter sunrays –

you smile inwardly,
the skulkers have gone

until next time.



The street runs like a dark mist,
rain swiftly catches cold,
streetlights grab the sidewalk,
an embrace of stone necessity.

A hooded faceless figure
throws a still glowing cigarette
into the flowing gutter – phssst
– extinguished now
they ride the pipes together
to the underworld.

A lonely rat sniffs a roller-door,
whiskers slick against his cheeks,
I step aside and find the moon
on the other side of my umbrella.

Strains of cheerful chatter
beckon from just around the corner,
with purpose now, I stride afresh
towards the harbour of my love’s face.


Cartels lurk in systems
of glittering marble

street lamps
placed for nostalgia
no need for umbrellas

beneath glassy atriums,
mazes of  coffee shop lanes

brocaded street benches
wait in arcades with no weather
for the weary and bored

department store goals
at each end
pedestrians herded

aspiring lives.

Meeting the Bar: Postmodern (Experimental)

Today  has focusing on an excellent series of writing experiment suggestions by Bernadette Mayer, an avant-garde writer known for her innovative use of language.


More of SueAnn’s wonderful art can be seen here

Shadows gather,
streets lights play the blues,
a couple sits in silence,
she twirls a swizzle stick,
he flicks his fringe,
an impatient stallion
hides behind his deadpan eyes.

Across the way, he watches
as lights go on and
blinds are drawn,
one window stays open
to the eyes of the night,
“someone will cry tonight,”
he thinks…

He lights a candle,
and puts on music,
something smooth
to quell his racing pulse,
“ack hem, I’ll put the
camera on a tripod,
with zoom, we’ll catch
it all, once they enter,
we shall strike.”

She calls room service,
they’ll need sustenance
on this long night,
her knives are ready,
“tonight, someone will die,”
she thinks.

They lock their brittle eyes.

Poetics: Through the Artist’s Lens

No Shit


In a vast megalopolis
raw shit floats
in open tidal channels,
bordered by houses
built from scraps of cardboard,
corrugated iron
and striped woven plastic;
children play in slimy
courtyards crusted
with Ecoli, untroubled
by the cloying stench
of digested food.

Around the corner,
a researcher stands
in a living room
with a voice recorder
capturing a conversation
about reality TV.

An animated face
talks of many things,
he gathers grist for his
theoretical mill:
consumer culture,
late capitalist pot noodles,
Slum Dog Millionaire,
and what happened
on Big Boss last night,
he laughs, no shit.