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Southern Ocean Review; Starry Night Review; Black Bear Review; )ism(; Thinkquest; Ragged Edge; Remark; Unlikely Stories; Babel; Thunder Sandwich; Open Wide Magazine; Zygote In My Coffee; James River Poetry Review; Bottle of Smoke Press; Southern Ocean Review; Feel Free Press; Hemispherical Press

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5 INFLUENCES

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CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Click image to listen to audio clips of Bukowski reading and discussing his work on the Mindspring site; for biography and poetry by Bukowski on the Beat Page, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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A.D. WINANS

Click image to visit the Christopher WunderLee & A.D. Winans Shrine; to read Winans' poem 'Dining Out When I Was Young' on the Rattle website, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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JIM BURNS

Click image to read Jim Bennett's review of Burns' 'As Good a Reason as Any' on the New Hope International website; to order a copy of Burns' 'Beward of Men in Suits' from Incline Press, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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RAYMOND CARVER

Click image to read Prose as Architecture, two excellent interviews with the brilliant Raymond Carver, click image, or to view his books on Amazon, click here

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WILLIAM WANTLING

Click image for Yann Lovelock's profile of Wantling on the Poetry Magazines website; to read about Wantling in Dave Cunliffe's article, 'Utopian Soup' on the Lycaeum website, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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TOP 5 MUSICIANS

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DAVID BOWIE

Click image to visit the official David Bowie website; for the Bowie Wonderworld site, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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FRANK ZAPPA

Click image to visit the official Frank Zappa website; for the Frank Zappa's Musical Language website, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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CAPTAIN BEEFHEART

Click image to visit the Captain Beefheart Radar Station website; for the Experienced Fans of Captain Beefheart website, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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IGGY POP

Click image to visit the official Iggy Pop website; for the Iggy Pop Rock Iguana unofficial website, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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NEIL YOUNG

Click image to visit the Neil's Garage website; for the Hyper Rust Never Sleeps Unofficial Neil Young pages, click here or for related books and cd's on Amazon, click here

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TOP 5 CITIES

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* New York
* Los Angeles
* Barcelona
* Sydney
* London

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HER EYES

she appeared to glide
above the street
like a spectre
attached to the flowing cape
of the genius artist
as it billowed behind him
like a proud flag

always present
like the enveloping air
the soothing sun
a shadow hungrily
devouring his burning
wild energy
or feeding a ravenous
appetite to discover

her eyes
ocean deep and still
penetrated the body
located the soul
sought and sucked out secrets
she then transplanted
into his consciousness
through a lovers kiss
executed with a surgeons skill

with a matadors flourish
and a twist of his slender body
the brief time was spent
he departed almost vanishing
but for a blur of the cape
slashing wounds in the air
then she vanished too
with him as always

FOR TOMORROW

maybe there�s nourishment
still left in the bones
of yesterday

don�t discard them thoughtlessly
pick the choicest ones
wrap them in rags of the mind

for tomorrow
may bring fuel for the fire
feed us well

but tomorrow may be lean
and empty and those bones
may make all the difference

THE FAMILY

Why is Mother pulling at his sleeves?
This must be a game of sorts, an evening ritual,
carried out upon his return home.
She looks kind regardless of the fingers
tightly seizing his wrist as if roughly
taking the pulse of a suffocating man.
Surely he cannot breathe, her arm dressed
in a coarse and heavy fabric upon his mouth,
the black elbow an effective muzzle.
And the daughter collaborating,
Grabbing, twisting, thrusting.
She wriggles and squirms, pushing her
young body between the rigid v
of the old man�s legs as the struggle continues.
By the window, her sister, with a grin,
almost holy in the light, rubs her hands
and waits knowing more of the game
than Mother or Father will ever know.

(After �The Family� by Paula Rego 1988)

THE SPARROW

the woman next door
tinkers with her washing,
as if hanging expensive drapes,
fusses with the pot plants,
her only children, then
opens and closes the outhouse door,
as though it may lead to another world.

like a sparrow, she takes a few small steps
across the tiny yard,
lights a cigarette, thin as her finger, and inhales,
then sits in a small wooden chair

with eyes closed,
as if sleeping and begins to imagine
she is a thousand miles from the city,
envious of the sparrow
as she really never did dare
to fly away.

RETURNING

A drifting smoke of laughter,
an echo of myself,
rises over the crimson wall
and approaches to greet me
wearing a newspaper smile
as wide as the years gone by.

My old man easily strode those
last few yards, across the grey
slabs, cracked with repetition,
buoyed by the white door in
sight at the end of another
day at the drawing office.

On watch at the window,
as the drawn teeth of evening
bit down upon the straggling
daylight, started to chew and
consumed it forever,
I leapt to my feet.

With a cry, I announced
his imminent arrival,
then as I turned,
there he was.

Home again.

THE WATCH

Kept in its box, occasionally worn with reverence, his father
left him the obligatory gold watch of retirement.
The box battered, worn by the years, but the ticking heart
at its centre as pure as it was the day it was handed over,
wrapped up in cheers and applause, a reward for loyalty.
He wears it less than his father did.

�Wonderful,� he states, then pauses, �solid and reliable,�
he concludes, placing it back into its box and gently smoothing
a trembling hand along the surface of the aging lid.
It isn�t clear if he is referring to the watch or his father.
It doesn�t matter. His eyes moisten as recollection wells in them.
When someone says so little the answers
do not need to come in words.

'WHILE YOU ARE STILL BREATHING'

think about those who are not
now dead underground
and while you are thinking
remember those who can't or won't try
and while you remember
reach back for memories
of good times that made you laugh
and while you are laughing
try not to laugh so hard that you cry
and if you start crying don�t feel bad
about yourself
it�s not all that bad
and it could be worse
and after all
you are still breathing
even though at times you may not want to
or you find it hard in the world
and there is much out there
you have not known
but one day you may
and there is much you can do or be
and when you do it
remember what you have done
and breath and laugh and cry
for all the right reasons

'THE GRAVE'

I drive the car in through the gates
and move up the driveway
until I find a place to park.

I show one of the grave tenders
the number I have and he directs
me further still.
I get out and leave the car.

There are no other people here.
It is a very quiet afternoon in San Pedro.
The sun is bright but not hot and the grass
looks very green and alive.

I look for the grave but have great difficulty finding it.
I remember a photograph I saw,
poets reading at the spot
and try to picture the image amid the trees.

I struggle and ask a middle aged Hispanic guy.
Oh him, he says, I know where that one is.
I know I�m not the first to come.

He takes me there
and leaves me alone.
I look over at the harbour
and it all seems very peaceful,
far from what I imagined of the resting place
of one of the world�s most famous
and brilliant hell raisers.

'THE VESSEL'

it begins in the right eye
like a razor blade
slicing through pallid

early morning skin,
trailing behind it a wound
bloodless, self � healing,

like a zipper closing up on itself,
spitting out the rabid froth
of a thousand contaminated dogs

slathering at the chops.
it passes to the left eye,
a still, silent minute,

a ghost of itself,
trackless and untraceable

'THE PORNO POETS'

they mythologize
composing their own canon
if we choose to believe it

laying down their words
as they lay their women
cheaply
casually
and with very little
afterthought

� Adrian Manning

'IT'S MY SKIN, I'LL DO WHAT I WANT WITH IT'

stories of people
who self harm, cut themselves,
make themselves bleed.

I don�t understand it I think,
I couldn�t do that, draw the blade
across my skin with such conscious
effort in such a compulsive way.

they must be screwed up.
something must have really hurt them
in the past I say to myself,
as I uncosciously scratch at
my skin and rip it off
certain parts of my arms and body,
leaving blood and holes
that will dry, heal and scar
ready for the next time.

� Adrian Manning
Reproduced with permission

'WAITING ON THE MAILBOX'

everyday, for something
to drop through.
some sign of life.
something to lift the day
off its knees.

I used to pace the floor,
peer out of the window,
looking for the mailman.

this was unhealthy
it got crazy, an addiction
but I�m better now
many days of disappointment
have taught me not to bother

finally I�ve learnt something
nobody really wants to bother

'I'

I am not your lover
but I could hold you close

I am not your mother or father
but I can utter gentle words

I see a misery etched onto your face
it is not a cold wind that makes your eyes water
it is not a dry desert sun that reddens your skin
it is not an outer pain that causes you to howl

I am not the answer
I cannot reinvent myself
as some cure for your ills
I cannot bring back what is gone

I am a passer-by
I have never walked this path before
I was heading for a place beyond the mountains
when I found you

but I cannot keep walking
when I find you like this
it is easy to turn away
but not
when the clouds break
and the rain begins to fall
and we are all that each other has
to cling to

� Adrian Manning

'IF WE TRY'

light to be experienced
no questions asked
darkness it�s flipped coin
unrestrained
light is my waking
light is the living
separating the righteous
and the corrupt

they say
we can own it all
if we try or we are lucky
if we follow the dream

if we strive
the world can be bought
and sold at market
we are easy commodities
everything is alterable
and temporary

except light somewhere
returning
without invitation
at the centre of it all
always reassuringly
out of grasp


� Adrian Manning
Reproduced with permission