Nick John Whittle Biography

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the small provincial town,
Soulless and starless,
With a dank reputation for brawls, bare bottoms and bakeries.
Not a creature was stirring
...

When Granma Mo breathed out her last
With the sun in west descent
My dad he phoned old Prendergast
‘Cause he discounts ten percent.
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Under my leather I soak with heat
Wearing no helmet or straps on my feet
As bare as a slave, I run Aquila to the fort
Then panting, huddled, fall quiet to the chalk.
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The Haquarious Twoo is a most wondrous beast
Who loves nothing more than an aqueous feast
In willow pattern dishes made entirely of lint
Laid out on a table of nose-crafted flint.
...

Cuda, mother goddess, in everything we know;
Hallowed is your simplicity, cult of measure and painted justice.
You are the damp currant soil between toes, stars of birthstone blue dust,
The razed warrior sun, mercury flooding moon,
...