False Bay Echoes

Unreleased album, produced by Robert Harder.

Recorded in Simonstown, Cape Town, South Africa.


Carina, it will all be over,
and then we’ll be happy
in our American dream
careening down some imagined highway.
Well you know if I had it my way
it would all be that easy.
But I sat on the shore with the whining willow
who says he taught me how to weep
on the better side of the Atlantic Ocean,

still so far from sweet

Carina, there goes our endless summer,
but we’ll have another, I pray,
some way and some day,
careening through a season of Saturdays.
O the last one seems so long away,
but this time I can truly taste the spring
in our American Dream.
Elgin Avenue Squat
As your face turns red with pleasure,
every love will become a desert;
the Grizzled Prospector with his pick-axe points at the sky.
Lovers and vultures hover,
each as hungry as the other,
or so it seemed in the photograph you sent.
“Look on my works!” screams the Prospector,
“though creation is itself a mirage;
my kingdom will inevitably disappoint.”
I courted you when you were a dancer
but the nights they grew too hot,
And now I’m drinking with your double in Elgin Avenue squat
I kissed you on the stairwell,
though it may have been your friend

I think, at least, behind your mask you groaned

But if you were my flashlight, honey,
then I was your globe
But all the lights are out on the Great Western Road,

now that Tiina comes in with her three precious bags
and a razor for each wrist in the house;
saying, “Though you’re smiling now, you hardly know me.”

and of course I could not answer
as the bomb so slowly dropped
that the clocks had all stopped in Elgin Avenue Squat


On the rocks all the sirens stutter
and stare at me with hate,
though more than once they’ve treated me most kindly.
The waves write the future in water:
every gull will become a vulture.
My reign is short; I do not take it lightly.
Princesses scream from the bouncy castle
as if they knew what the future held;
the blind beachcomber knows, but she’s not telling
while Ophelia tells me the Danish guitarist
she slept with the evening before

will be fixing the doors in Elgin Avenue squat.


My father is in the mountains
trapped within his cave

by floods and the days that have abandoned him.

I share his taste in misery,
we’ll share a glass of wine again,
I pray we will again, somebody,

but silences rain like healthy veins
as I run down the frozen canal
to where no dead poet dares stand beside me
where currents and sheer directions
stream forever into the past,
but nothing lasts in Elgin Avenue Squat.