Drown MondaysThe best way I foundto catch my seven-twenty trainis to miss the seven-o-five, be lateand grow a glut of yinfrom the corpses of yangsdrown mondays to breathe tuesdaysbut I nibbled cake and kept it too;I caught the seven-o-fiveand the hands fell off the clock,fell off my wristwatch
7.34mmA simple measurementcan make a manlose himself; a blurring, no morethan a grainy smudgea scant 7.34mm longthis rice-grain, seven weeks oldwith one hundred and twenty nineheartbeats per minuteall this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
Own SkinI bought myself a Moleskineto emulate Picasso, Hemingwaywas never seen without hisin canal-side cafes, Spanish bull rings.My fingers grease its ebon spineover and over in tactile searchfor some hidden leak of creative essenceI found Dante's housedown an old narrow streetalongside a crowd of German touristsI did not enter only staredat his stones, the exterior.The hotel room is filledwith the buzz of the alleyway below,restaurant kitchens' backdoors openingfor cooks, waitstaff, rubbish bags and oaths,effusive shoppers admiring new pashminascarves haggled from vendorsin the adjacent market square.I close the window.The shaft of my pen is bentand buckled, cratered with teethmarks,the plastic pocket-cliplong snapped off.It smells of stale inkand lemon balm handcream,the brass ballpoint idlingdry in its socket.I bought myself a lambskin leather-jacket,russet brown to match my bootsbefore they seeped their colouracross Florence's rain-soaked cobbles.My feet mo
Mount AlbertMount Albert, called Owairakaalso: volcano in slumber,scoria thighs and skirts of grassfeed half a dozen grazing cowscookies-and-cream colouredflanks, fat bellies wobblingat crater's edgealongside an archery range,an old football fieldamidst eucalypt treeswindbent and scatteredbark-tongues peeling patchwork,and beneath the cattlehooves,beneath mud, beneath leaf-litterand fine-grade footpath gravelare older stones, buried deep:some cold, some warming
ForegroundFour thirty AMI am standing in my kitchenwearing my dark blue dressing gownbuilding a time machinefrom assorted cutleryand a broken microwave.I am visiting youthree years ago.I have calendars for youwith notes written each day:some are highlighted orangeto show you when to ignorethe things I say.Others are circled blue,and on these occasionsI meant every word.I am smiling at you,already knowing the day you leaveI will understandin time, despite what I say.You look at me quizzically:bemused by this odd smiling.Its four years later:upsetting things we saidseem like empty noise,instinctive animal-thrashingsagainst the inevitable.Clockhands and calendars are arbitrary.Its now fourteen years later:you are fond memories,all golden, sepia-toned,like a creature held in amber.Then its last year again,its spring and also autumnand Im sleeping off my bruises,and waltzing round the cherry-treesthat grow in groves at Cornwall park.&
No Oaks StandOld brick-and-iron brewery, borders invadedby brushes of fennel, by wildgrasshome to shipping containers,to refrigerated units, fans spinningonly when the southerlies blowthe wildgrass doesn't mindmy father worked heremy father died hereand the grasses grow on, grow tallas the brewery sinks, and the wind whistlesI pray for strong roots and liquid head,I pray to become the grass
Neon CherriesOur crew all red-eyed,awake in the dim earlymorning glow, no morethan cocaine-white ratsin a skinner box,no more than a mouseclick from victorydeferred, put-offsleep and sunlight,circadian cycles,for side quests and swordsexperience points and golddispersed on a whimcontingent on variable-ratioreinforcement like video pokermachines, sweet neon cherriestaste them, taste them, taste themsubsisting on Domino'sand flat Mountain Dewcold grease and crumbscollage our keyboards,bare feet on thin carpetinside the amniotic warmthand hum of a home officethe swivel chairs are callingagain: take thy throne,slip on the second face,the noble-mien'd avatar,clap your aching handsyour sore red clawsand soak in serotoninfor pixellated victoryin seconds overevery enemy herewill be defeatedin time, in time, in time
Eternal ReturnRainwater poolsin the ruts in your drivewaygrey and gravellywinter is here againwet and windy againdamp and clammy,a recurring drainage issueyet lovely stillpinned in your bedroomabove a booklamp, the headboard,one slow-dried rosecoloured like chiantian Nth anniversary token,a keepsake, a memory,twin bedside tablescluttered with novels,your handpainted pasta bowlsfaded from a hundredimprovised pasta sauces,from passata and capers,ricotta and dolcettostains on the marble coasters,deep red rings occludingthe florentine piazzascene as sepia-tonedas it always wasand always will bethe familiar sag foundabove a weak bedspring,a sink for bare kneeslike a waiting mouthremembers the pattern of pinktongue-tip and damp lipsintuitive and instinctivenever needing to be toldreminded, re-instructedand outside on the lawnyour appletree is fruiting again
Quod Petis Hic EstQuod petis hic est,weatherboard exterior, knotty pine insideiron roof could use a fresh lick of paintbut why does the little bitwant to grasp the big,tread on daisies to gaze at starssitting up top, out here with the treesrooftops clouds we can see for miles,the whole world, seems likequod petis hic est
if a tree falls in...a fenceless gardendefenseless and unguardedshe watches you grow
Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.
Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; howa rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birdsand whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)death and life. I found chaosand knew beauty.
now accepting applications...the smoke beneath your bed finally finds youstaring crooked in broken mirrorssearching franticallyfor the fire of your former featuresforever and emberstill breath and false starts'til it whisperssurethe universe is big businessconstantly expandingbut the fact of (the) matter isit desires you deposit d.n.a.demanding genetic building blockson which to lay its foundationand though the future of father's daughtersiscertainly uncertainthe sun set's assuredeventualconsumptionofeverythingmeanwhileI'm eagerly anticipating the arrivalof the non-linear one-linersomething like:yes it all implodes in infinitybut buildings retain their names anywayormountains and their silhouettes sit stillyet oppose portraits on general principalopinions varythe stars think they're brilliantthe general population favors vague impressionsandmost allow the words(to escape unnoticed)
UntitledThe effectiveness of an umbrella isinversely proportionate to its comfort,you mapped the world in gradientsof notes that slid open on spokes.watching a city under an inverted sky,you tethered your soul to the tops of buildings,following runway lights thatbled into a fog of classical and thoughtsthere is something ethreal about music,intangible-you try to grasp the rainbut the words slip through your fingersthe night we met,on the piano, you tried to play the skybut all that rolled out was a muted thunderSometimes it rains in people,You can see it in their eyes
claustrophobia and seventeen:There is a devil at my ribcage and I cannot expel it.I think it wants to crush me, and I wish it would do so quickly. It could shatter my ribs and piece-by-piece, feed me to the night wind. I'd flutter like an angel's ashes out my window and be carried by the gusts of cool air to every rooftop of the city. I would be all the colors of the light spectrum and illuminated by glowing craters of the moon against the darkness of the crimson sky.But I must've done something wrong because the devil refuses to grant me even my wish of death. It has control of the sky and its scrapers and all the walls that follow me everywhere I go. They all close in on me, over my head, covering the sky, and the devil puts pressure on my ribcage. It grips me and releases me, grips me and releases me, testing my limits, giving me barely enough time to recover before squeezing out just enough air that I don't lose consciousness. When I can breathe again, I am still rotting in my own sour air. I don't even get
the end and also everythinglisten with the skinI've lost the album of my lifevistas and their episodesones that you were inthe wind is warmimpossiblymore alivethan nights or vesselsthe wind isall there ever is~*~todayit comes: the universeis not addinglight to darknesswe are the shadowsshielding socketsfromobliterativebirth-songsometimewe'll leave the outsidewhiteand reoccurfrom one to One.
Willing FleshFlesh the means, spirit the end,yet still the unintended. While deepembedded in the pulsing rhythmsof the body's routine life, it transcendsphysicality, flourishing in realitiesnever imagined before. Spirit is the keyto unlock the heavy door, to makethe great discovery of joy.
made from killing sleepthe morningirresolutionhas murdered you;vicissitude,dislimbed mementos,poppies and feathers and gray impressionsare all that's leftto reassemblethe achingchest ofscreamingnightjars,that pinionharpwith themazarineteeth.
DrownBlackness at three AMDead starsMason jarsBooks of hymnsRibbons, wreathes, smokePhone calls from the deadThese things I knowAndThinkOfAsIDrown
another doomed doomsdaymankind set their clocksthe omniscient unknowingslept through the rapture
rhetoricFamously,they say insanityis repetition;faith renewedin failing strategies.Sowhat is living,life?What is lovingyou?
18. She dreams...she dreams ofsprouting wings andsoaring, to the place whereevery alleyway, every side roadbrings promises of new adventures,she dreams ofwalking, among the solemnwinged lions that watch with eyesof stone, the insignificant ants,scurrying, always hurrying,knowing they would snort with contemptif they could (she would)she dreams ofcrossing those frowning bridgesover the green glass (it moves), perchingon the steps that lead down to a world beneathand listening to the deep voice of the man rowing pastsinging in a language so sweet(she won't understand, but younever have to understand beauty)she dreams ofsitting in the plaza, watchingthe people pass and understandingwhat they're talking about, and maybeafter that, she would go findthe old man thatsold her the clay whistle(shaped like a bird bath)that trills like a bird,whenever she adds just the right amountof water and wind, and maybethey could talk, without needof a translator and feed the pigeonstogether
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skiesNo traffic, no pedestrians; silence.The end of June, the end of music.No birds, no wind, no dreamsexcept this one.This clinical, sterile dream,Inside looking outat nothing.As the sun slowly makes its wayacross the sky,The only sound is the ticking clock.I'm going outside to make a grass angel.
immediacythis new little truththis robin eggbluebrooding in skies'dull deciduais beggingblack spacefor a mercymurderingdamn this featherbrainconfuterwith its wilding silver blood tongue licking for obsequious anticipants'till they burnto a soft nilpotency -i'll make a bed inarmageddon gray paper craneasheshere's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod'sslow dreaming deathin the waist - ohi hope i'll be replacedwith pure eraser whitein a comfortable beheading -there's no tellinghow muchbetter offthe world'snext beginningwill becomewith one lesssilhouetteinterveningbetweenthe sunand the partingeyelessSoul.
letters to the universe 1my shapeless beloved,my 15-hourglass catalepsis,my universe in an air castle above a snowglobe,too much illimitable time has passedalready and not nearly enough stands left to unravelyour cotton mysteries borrowed from department store racks;eternities, painstakingly dismembered to hallow stillswhence im granted pro tempore life to smear your magic shadow blushto chasm depths where parabolas are ocean-wept,will someday verge upon (my) collapse.for even now i doubt theres reality left outside your arms,mass beyond your lips, or breath more than momentsafter you close your lights.
forget about medon't listen for it, anymore:the ugly balladist, the poète mauditunbosoming his delustrants,strangulations and subglossal annulments.i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmiaof spoondrift oblivions.open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!that is where i've been these years,shimmering flushin the night between kneeholes.
Red BoatRed boat in the harbour,commercial trawler amidst the bluelike a gunshot-woundon a cop's patrol shirt