i am

i be
the sun

the bee the flower
sung, water

on skin. stung.
with no wind

i fall
and
break.
break

into colour--
rainbow(penisglowinglikeaglowykindofmoon)
stripped apart
and bleeding
me

(flight of birds,
gush and slide)

into darkness,
light
crowning
head.

i am.

the man inside of me

in my jacket is a saxophone. in
the saxophone is a tidy sum
of feelings.

last night i found a man
in my breast-pocket,
he spoke in A-flat
and blew his nose on my sleeve.

i said to him "why are you in
my clothes?"

to me he said "it just didn't
feel right to be inside of you".

"that's ok", i replied,
"i was feeling lonely anyway,
you can keep me company".


the next night he was gone.

sea tales

from the sea we flopped onto the shore,
simple hearts caught
between jade waters and
coastal shrubbery.

we laughed then, at our own
inadequacies; idly propped,
tails rested amongst the rough shells
and tangled webs of sea-weed.

slow awakening. the wind
blowing across the sky-- see,
feel,
touch,

so intimate. the dawn.
clouds streaking out in colour,
blooming vibrant, spilling
light into our eyes...
the sea, the sea. waves,
dying with each return,
lapping at our hands out-
stretched to cup the salty
waters,

feel the slip, the glide--
lips over skin,

it recedes; soaks
back into the sea,
fingers wriggle.
press in wet sands
and we,

with light and sound,
join our hearts
to one--

the ocean calls
and we swim
with the sea.

Batjen

She is a bat. A bat
which steals the yolk
from the egg and shits
into your porridge
and slips off with
your tea-spoon so
your coffee is left
milky and makes you
you want to kill
your pets.

that, my friends,
is Batjen.
she covets your heartbreak
and leaves dookie in your
socks,
and she laughs at all your inanities
while sipping on gin and paint,
flicks her eyelashes at you like
curses and washes her underwear
underneath the table so as to not
to feel
exposed. but how now

brown cow. i have found your golden egg.
it is warm and reeks off ass and grass.
and other assesments.

i have found you sniffing at my skiddies
like a wine-loving french postal worker.
and i have you seen flutter about my window
hoping for a peek, you sly little p-p.

i know your game batwoman. and it isn't
baseball.

ode to little miss summers

buffy poem no. 1


the camera caught you
as you, in turn,
caught my heart.

i love you.

of men and women and the ins and outs of relationships and the metaphorical physics of fucks.

placenta complacent in
your fridge, frosty
freezing foreskin off
the door

knob.

kisses, kisses, lots
of kisses on the doorstep.
dreams a vice, a
spice to life, a leaf
flutters on the
space between
the spaces
leaning in
the wings.

the stage sagging. she
loves. and her love is
infinity and her passion
calls out and he responds
like water to a sponge.
his cock outsprung.

ready for the rape

ANGELS FALLABLE

ANGELS FALL
ANGELS FALL
ANGELS FALL
on penis.with fishies in his
pockets that makes for strange
conversations.
yes. Ther'es con'fusion in da' hous.
and the hose is spurting out infinities
and fucking little Georgia May
with its black hole thunder lips.
And THEY RISE
THEY RISE
like a rinsed out cowboy,
homocloaked in funny boots and
big hat,
he has a cheesy grin and melting hands.

tea-time
for the
witch.

cackles....

vermin poets eel their way through the stars
shitting out dumb verbs and
poking dare tail-feathers in our ears.
our ears are soft and penniless,
grown fond of sticky offerings
where baby seed is given freely
such dealings make us bless'd.
for how else are babies made?
but through jizzy-wizzing on one ladies
pink-lit lobe?

and, sir, i ask of thee...is love not
made from white and gold?
tell me, sir, what has your heart
been told?

the doll

motorbike engine revs her thighs
into heaven, pink and peach
on the complexion of a smooth child.
criminal is the doll which
says so little, eyes preternatural
blink and blink again
for the forest is the owl
and the skin which is the sky
is home to a million different lights
all coloured for you. and
lonely as the in-between.

her thighs ride the invisible,
the doll giggles, and stays
smooth; gets smoother.

fire + water

water molecules squeeze amongst the detritus,
and small is the world tonight
where leaves fold like napkins,
eyes shut, open grey; and skin

is like an eternity being shrugged off
with feathered indifference.

and she,
the fire underneath the earth
lifting it higher
beyond the reach of clouds.

friendly fire

gun weeps bullets
like frost and
sympathy...

tea-leaves choke
the space between
the soldiers--
water molecules
pressed beneath
transcendence.

while outside,
in the cold of
night:

falling
are the bodies
caught
in the friendly
fires of dawn.

nihilistic ruminations on the subject of a window

wind
dow
op

end. no.

there is no
thing
out
there. not there.
nothing:

a fence with
a savage tinge
of something,

metallic thought,
it thinks,

stares at me
in my room

nothingness.
blank.
here.
everywhere.

a poem for un

sitting in the bowel of my poem
waiting so watery to get
pushed out,
and reinvent the
word and to fly.

to fly in the face of unknown
and squander my sense of
everything on a single satire
unravelled like fettucini
on the skewering fork.

to fuck with unknown and say
something just to say it.
and let them beat me down with
little mounds of 1's like
squirming maggots racing the
hare.

they finish first. there is no
race though, only end lines.

like the way cool swerve of
fuck you
glaringly self-evident, the
way my eye-lids droop off my face
in search of a better one
and my teeth ache cancerous as
my tongue swishes from side to
side.

in my mouth, i think, are words
like hurricanes and traffic lights
searching for their place in
amongst the others
and waiting impatient, waiting
with soggy shoes, squelching
down the hall to find
a fickle mate and
fuck me down,
fuck me out,
fuck me in, and
spit me out.

that like gatorade falling out
the bottle spilling out the
spiral elevator of my mouth,
zigging and zagging about the
crystal monolith of time;
glints light, crayon pastel,
from the shadows bent (belief)
spit from out my eyes.

and all faces loom out with
fucked dissent,
lurch like cannon-balls
into the unthought ocean.
screams the dark
"the light has caught me,
i am caught"

so drown me, dear betrayer
i have only words
and you, you would sell them
by the pound.

[untitled rhyme thang]

smile like a lemon wedge
lightless, weighed
against the salt and sting

war of fruition
with kamikaze lean
to risk the lips, in kiss

and touch in bliss,
oblivion!

jenakajoffer inspired piece of carp...

when she goes down
its like a snake swallowing
a sailor's knot
and her velvet mouth
tips over you like
melted butter

sautéed mushrooms,
fries, some black
pepper with
a creamy and
delicious chicken
is what you hunger
for

what you crave
as you flash
through the
drive-in,
choke down a
big-mac,
inside,
your heart
clogs up
skips
just a little
with each
plasticky
cheesy
bite.


she tastes like
carp.

catshipgrin IV

crippled cat
eight legs

no eyes
shipped meow's

through storm
by mailman.

cat grins
grins ship.

a soldier's life

simply dance on the awning,
the yawn the tip
the slip the yip, the dog
has layed a golden egg
upon the ledge, in
hearth to warm to ice
to reave the soul from
slit-eyes shed
where tears hang like
pearls of jizz from
the hooker's death, she,
unmoved immune to laughter
morally proportioned legs
to arms to slippery cock
sheathed in the scabbard
of a soldier's life.

a baby is just a cat skimming the lake

"waa-waa"
-OKcomputer

once a baby, once a sun
rising out from ocean
sands, skimming
cats

dance, throw them over lake
like pebbles
and watch them drown.

baby sprinkled,
washes off some sunny sin.
above,
cloud of shadow
brays like elderly
sock in the shape of
a donkey heading
to the slaughterhouse
where the father
who aren't in
heaven

waits with sharpened wits
and steely eyes.

the baby sleeps,
waa-waa's follow
into person.

Apartment 4 Rent

she gets fucked
by a tea-cup
everynight when palm-frond
motherfuck gets back
from nowhere,

he of the sapphire tongue
and doleful eyes.
he likes to spoon her
sugar for her,
swishes it in with a
gyroscopic motion,
swish swish swish.
like a "YES YES YES"
pounding the inside of
my porcelain brain.

that's the sound of connectivity,
and fuck,
if that's not love then blue
shades of face surely
twist into heart maps
to the soul,

of fists and fucks. yes?

catshipgrin III

cat and checkers,
she,
the feline, arches back
falls onto red
square,

communist.
*
as the marxists laugh
moist heartedly at the
objectivists who have
forgotten them in their
wallets.

while, over on the
other-side of things,
miss piggy watches the birds
sail off into the
apocalypse.

with a grin she mirrors the cat
who is shrieking now about
checkmate,
lumpy gravy is spooned onto
the board,

[life is given meaning.]

meaning aside,
cat. hip.
wears beret,
for all the cats
to see

attempts grin out from
botoxed whiskers,

struts
onto a pale
deck full
of kings and
queens
but fails
to notice the
joker,

throws her over.

rope

he supplied you with endless diamonds
but all you wanted were little
kisses,
and some rope.
to make you feel
your youth

slip around
just once more.

Amnesia

As empty as the bush
inside of george.

sweet sixteen

she is young and still,
restless, not yet wise
but wise enough.

touch her hair, it shines.
it shines for us, like water
thought the sun. like
words shaped into song
and sung. upbeat melody

plainly speaks of youth,
and the sad truth of age.

sneaking on her skin,
you would take her heart
and rob it of a beat,
just a hum though;
a bar perhaps.

for the end is whistling,
as it always must.
and your ear has caught the
tune.


.another one for mbs.

when it rains

we are like loony toons
stepping onto colour frames,
slouching out from
black and white


where steamy cups and
steamy fucks entwine,
dim rain shades the day.

life fondles us like
Mother's hand, hung
upon the crib.


we fuck and fuck

and yet you dissolve;
leaving a ghost
of bitterness.
a million tears shine
upon the window pane,

all for you.


for mindbodysoul. i suppose.

to drown in shallow water

by the underpass, slip of a girl;
wide eyes,
glances at his paper dreams floating down
the drain way.

throws out a "how's it goin‘...?". heavy in the air,
he wants her lips. in a boys fashion,
with tented jeans and crooked smile,
hair mucked about by silly wind.

crouches,
denim seams come undone,

he is shy now.
sinks into the muddy water,
dreams and all float on by.


for jen. in part.

coffee and cigarettes

there were clouds in her coffee,
so she said, but all i saw were
the limbs of cigarettes.

and strokes of ash, those tender
markings, left by lovers
long gone;
scorched upon her flesh.

.born of starr.

catshipgrin II

face with a post-it note
grin.
cats hackles rise,
but she is unfazed
by this jealous turn.
indeed, not a girlish
grin but one reserved
as the wine label teste-
ments.

tasty face,
ponderously slow
open ocean
like jarlsberg- holes in it,
fall through on ship
into dark
place,

where the men have pitched
forks. and the soul sings
ABBA night to night-ish day.

that is where my ship has gone.
mast spake "you there, cat,
your stomach flaps for birds decay"
"yes" purrs cat. she preens,
feathers gilded grey;
blood oscillates to
swells harmony.

she, of the tacked on,
keeps on tacking on,
onto vile things with
names like "Stew" and
"Fred". Cat, though,
smiles to steal the
out-turned grin,

firelight plays upon
ocean face,
cat looks at me.
my penis holds my hand

catshipgrin

she has a stupid grin.
a grin the cat would like to
call its own.

for ships have no place in
the middle of the
desert; or dessert
but in the waters hands
a ship may be at peace.

with a cat on its deck
the ship may squeal and
fall into a little squall.
and the ocean may speak
(to the mast) of clouds it
use to know, and rain-storms
it once loved

but by the fireside her stupid
grin sits there; smoking,
playing devil to my cock


rising out from misty isle
and heading into desert stretch.

in full bloom

silence offends us,
bloom with the outthrust
of a catapult-
we speak the stone
of broken heart:

flowers gain a stony
gleam.

she

she likes to get hurt when she loves.
pulls apart the apron strings tying
her to decency,
and naked will decay before his moral
eyes.

seeing visions of angels and apple trees
she will climb the stairs like a
veteran, to find the roof more spacious
than she would have it,
and would go back down
into a smoky room and tell
all the sailors that she is pretty.

her cherub cheeks would flare. and they,
those pretty thieves, would take her
to their beds and love her just enough
for all the pain beside;

her fathers, felt once more.

on the nature of things: beneath no earth

let words reach down the throat of dawn
and write the sunrise.

the river dreams of water,
i realize i am incomplete.
...


truly,
as being; in delicate
pose of flower

poser, ivory vase
and circles inlaid
on dead coffee table

i am circled, date
and pen as one
flowing downstream
into stony hands

vascular, noteworthy,
brown eyes floating
and curled into
the plenty--
light arc, rainbow pleasure
drifting, sifting;
water slips through fingers
caught between
river and the air.

i falter then, between
substance,
as ash returned to flame,
time wears on, slowly; memory
aflame.
watch:


subdued,
eyes warn eyes
of death.
floating on a smile now,
free to dream, yellow sweater
dirty hands
and muddy bath
child swims the dream,
no gravity,
no earth beneath the
sky, freedom:

a kiss between each breath.

*
and solitude finds its place
in the thoughts of every star,
i sleep,
i sleep,
and dream my life once more
as pulse returns to pulse
and flowers
are replaced.

the cat and the bird

my cat has been naughty,
has killed another bird

feathers lie strewn like
little dresses on the bedroom
floor,

i slide the desiccated body
into the dustpan, it rolls
over somewhat and small black
pin-prick eyes stare into me.
they are lifeless and
heartbreaking.

mirrored, I can see myself, floating
on that perfect black
dropped into a bin;
forgotten.


the cat wants food,
the bird is dead.

into cotton dream

i lie beside your grave--
to show them that i have feelings;
for the eclipse of rebirth

and because by the numbers
on the wall are yellow teeth
connected to smaller men

sand-papered down.
suits drift down the
sullen streets- night-shaded-
dim light looming over
prairie asphalt black
like cold water.

tentacles reach out from the
sky, aqua-chalets form
inside clouds and there, by the
stranded moon, is a spaceship
hurtling into
its metallic lover.

and i lie.
suck my thumb,
find myself a cotton
sheet and fall into
a cotton dream.

the 24th (or 25th) of July, 2008

I wish time would clock forward
so i could go to the cinema
and watch the new X-files
film,

What becomes of Fox, and
little miss Scully I do
so wonder...

Alas! Time is a station
always getting further
away.

solstice

red paint chips
slide into soft mouth

colours of the wall fading,
dark sun clings onto
surface

indigo lips push out at
the cool lemonade,
glass rests, upturned

as liquid refreshment
pulses

(heart in dance with time
with life with death with
dance)

ruby, it aches; this colour
of passion
dallies in the corner by the
lamp. she, its mistress

silently sheds a tear
as the onlookers

practice vapid, sip
on ice cubes melted sorrows

sadly murmur about the
solstice, deflecting
truth--

eyes look on.

ABCD...

A hillbilly, no a born again
bigot, with newspaper eyes and
crows feet etched on his shoulder blades...

"Dylan?" he mutters, from ear-to-
ear, as though chewing on the thought
formed in open-space as green-eyed
grad. students flutter about the quad,
hoping to get some of that undergrad. ass.

"its a miracle, a fucking miracle" he screams,
jumping on the spot, crow screeching, cawing,
k-k-k-umm, no...cancer of the mind
pointing to the Heavens, iridescent, gleaming
over a two-pound chicken, yeah, well
never look a gift horse in the ass
might shit on you, yes, you
lay-lady lay...lay upon a smoking grass bed.

quote me "spoke the earnest man, earnestly
resting on the downy earth".
Sister Agath-ommo-nagather, well
Timmy the Tool sure tooled her.
U-oy kids though, sitting on the leaves,
vacillating over the holy
whores of Christ, well, drunk and pissing really...
X-marks the spot.
Y? is the groove to which he "Dylans"
Zebras dance by, pedestrians try and walk on them. yeah.
***
this we call life.
in the fastlane.

perfect scenery

rain and coffee:
my sort of day,
in peasants dress

of slack robe and old socks
sitting on the dock
of my bed, steam rising
from my favourite cup
and slipping into
a good book

time, a tide; breaking
down by the second
hours slide by
and I don't go wanting,
just sittin'
in my bed

thumb and index
flipping page to page,
rolling on the words
as they rush back into
dark avenues of lazy
dust and papered dreams.

rain and coffee--
the perfect scenery.

tea & symmetry

the only problem I have with feet
is that they don't detach.

detached men can though, from
feelings and unions and Unions
and wives
on the balconies of posh hotels
filled with
naked bell-hop and smoked salmon.

so I walk,
into the pale city filled
with the sub-space groans of
a god busting for
a piss,

where the streets have many names
and the taxis all look the same
to the eye of the [whispers]

business executive,
but one long hop to the women
standing on the platform;
longing for some tea
and symmetry.

cat and mouse

hands like the stolen lollipop
hide within her sleeves,
as cat cradles the tumbleweed
in oesophagus, plays kitty
for all the neighbours
and dark mistress for the mice.

she unearths two secrets,
but one is plenty
and her cardigan is torn.

mice scuttle in her bones;
cat wears flesh like a coat-hanger.

never a.m.

yellow nail
and yellow

frail canary,
chirp like
a dog, hobble

on the road
and sleep like a hog.

i'll met you at the
crossroads, never a.m?

blessed be the lord

it is by green grapes
that tongues emerge

ably unfurling, swirling
in concert

vodka slipping over,
into, do-over?

***

head splitting, wringing
dirty words from wet

wagging tongue. we
shove 'em back in

and pledge our lives
to Lord Sober.

drunkpoem

d
   r
 u
n
      k
like a full-stop peddling into
a sign-post,

STOP.

and you [ha ha!] laugh, see.
like a maggot in the dripping
of a corpse dripping into death.
maggot fitting the
tequila bottle like frank-eeee
zappa

in the sugar-plum of some prissy
sis. some over-ripe
bandage on the sore of repressed
human sex-
uality

as yelling dog daddy,
"f-for-f-uck sake, get the fuck out
of this house." exclamation point.
exclamation point rising like
chimney smoke, we
laugh again.

at the fucks which are our lives,
infesting the spaces in our heads
like mothballs and vanquished sorr...