MENGELING is the Flemish word for 'mixture' and that is exactly what this compilation is - a jumble of poems cherry-picked from various times both before and after those in my first collection.
Stretching a little further back than '95, when I wrote Honeymoon in Paradise as a protest against French nuclear testing in the Pacific, the more recent poems such as Pub Grub and Solace come from just before I left for Australia in early 2004. 
If slightly disjointed, the somewhat introspective Mengeling nevertheless contains several works which are important in helping to illustrate the journey of my life.


We all live in a house called handbag
I was nearly caught by a handbag man
Looking up, murky grey, it started to rain
The Sky shedding tears upon the lawn

The flower of pride is a colourful flower
Pollinating everything for miles around
Throbbing temples as the morning tea sets in
Glass panes only have a weak reflection

As the light comes on it illuminates the handle
Zulu club lying by my bed
There's a tall, grey Heron watching over
Protecting all he sees

Sleep washes out like tides upon the shore
White foam dreams, dispersing with the Sun
Snake, curled up, tastes the air with her tongue
A gift, a present, from happier times

The smell on the pillow reminds me now of solo
White Musk no longer caresses my face
It's not that I am sad, no longer even empty
These memories are as distant as an old, brown chest

I wipe my eyes, scratch my head where it is itching
The smell of her hair my fondest memory
Flowers and gifts, love, warmth and laughter
I hope this chapter is as beautiful as the last

The smile behind my eyes is slowly returning
I hope this chapter is as beautiful as the last

Johnny was a loner
Johnny made of wood
He longed to photosynthesise
And wished that he still could

Jenny loved her feathers
Jenny loved to fly
To be carried up by thermals
And to soar across the Sky

Johnny he'd been chiselled
To the shape that he was in
He stood outside the entrance hall
And watched as folks went in

Jenny flittered here and there
In the leaves of that which grows
But was never really settled till
She jumped on Johnny's nose

And from then on they were happy
From one day to the next
Him all tall and straight and strong
With his face as her nest

There was a man called Bilgeby Sprite
Went in a shop for pegs
He went to buy some linseed oil
To grease his wooden legs

He never found his precious oil
But bought a Shaman's Drum
A German soldier's helmet
And some flowers for his Mum

Good old Bilgeby

Panasonic boundaries
Enclose me in a wall of sound
From all around me comes the music
Lifting me far off the ground

There's somewhere that the drumming takes me
Far away from all that's near
And though I'm with a crowd of people
None of them can really hear

So I dance to beats and rhythms
Going on inside my head
And what it was that you just told me -
I didn't hear a word you said

Footprints in the sand
No beginning, no end
The beach's memory
Of a wanderer
Who danced across these sands
Some time ago
With loving feet
Never to meet
With anyone


My arm's gone to sleep
And so have you
What am I supposed to do?
'Cos if I move I'll wake you
I'm buggered, but in a nice way

Sitting in a tent
Time well spent
Watching the Sun
As it arcs across the Sky

Underneath the tree
Just the tent and me
The hours don't matter
Just the blinking of an eye

It's mainly insects that I see
Butterflies and Moths and Bees
Dancing round so merrily
On their ways back home

But the best thing that this tent supplies
I doubt you'll be at all surprised
Is what, just lately's all but died -
That's time spent left alone

Thank you tent