EYES

are organic, 

you twitch at emblem 

lit 

by two rubbing chorus sticks

the music licks in: more twos 

  a field linger, a bone once shards made 

  quicken to breath

  

  mouse in hole, a ripening of 

  life 

  

  against more leans 

   again more skeleton 

     on the lil eaves 

m

ustard coloured skin 

her pickled eyes 

with pepper sanded hair

her newspaper swaddle of twigs in a bunch 

of arms she would borrow

bouncing, 

that hair flounces, 

red ball 

up and 

down 

with a shuttered window and a long walk

we come to understand

why the fire came

and why it did not stay.

 

...

more ever

less alive

in australia you can weep bathwater

i think this          
though it isn't flowers or windowsill

me,
[omfg]
i was sly,
 caring


with the dust of you on my tongue
or the plain of my shirt
its nuanced wrinkles
and crooked me- still inside of it. it's been two days or whens like:

when she looks at me, when am i not the fullest blind i can be?

 and my collar aches to be
 a cowards sail
 on the lake [the closest body of water is always the lake when you don't wont to see the end of the earth in your vision of somebody so very beautiful]

 with a push of palm to her
 and let go -  and i
 squint at three
 months of letting go
 like it was a saturday and
 the moths were on the light shade
with my corpse dangling pretty 'neath moth flutter

 or facebook a reason to
 later say i am sorry for not
 really being

 happy enough
 or
 for
 sadness so awful

and so sadly mount her wall with my emoticons, or pm a kiss i would
later call a typo,

as if.

i wanted her in july, and now i have dry-heaved myself six cycles of moon

oz is the red certainty, the koala country
where i wuss, lap through shark
bites of her.
my mouth mouths memories:
called her "north star" or every one
 i can't quite recall

but the sand shifts beneath my feet
and she is

nothing australia couldn't burn
in trees

or a tub that i plugged.

flake

because i adore
the you who boated

from anthony's to the west
room,
(palace of compass points)
your slave son
dragged that white knight
over his shoulder

slung oar feet, nearly scratched my fear
into the floor,

or ten
windows by ten windows
as thrown by poplars
as she was-

a girl by the boat shed
rubbing hand to thigh

waits warm

and displacing
 north, which way
to the loo?

i make it
eight ells
till

love
tumbles

remembering tenderness

to be honest i don't.

i remember becoming 'william'

who was shoved

into the story

of my name, i am 

memories of colour

like "yellow"- 

   the first of the sunflowers and the stripe 

   of bee in wonder,

   my mother called me away from 

   a swollen hand

   as if nature were more cruel than 

   shade.  

   my fingers later would curl beneath 

   petals,
   and that you

   stain.

or coming home from school on the august path

when the wind kicks back and i am 

another distanced yellow, this time smudged on concrete 

slabs, i think i drew our family in crayon

and it rains tomorrow

but you're there in brightness

till the shade licks. 

though this is cruel to me, 

that i am born and that i have died 

that your arms cradle

a fleece blanket with milk stains 

so long dried that it seems to

map a crust of youth

like when sailors search 

the night for every piece 

of starlight, every sliver 

of wind that will bring them 

back to bones. 

that is your grace holding me-

your pain that still clenches 

blindly at something blue, 

though it hurts with tenderness

your screaming nails cut my 

memories into scrap paper 

dolls that nest on the fridge door. 

at something blue, or else, 

something fainter than simply naming me 

as yours, a throat of me 

not the cold remorse of your tongue

imagining teeth of the prettiest white

as pretty as horses running paddocks

something clenched as i was 

to your warm breast, 

though at the time i couldn't pretend

and my tears wronged you, 

you were strange after that,

you plied your hands at crafting nets 

from animal bones, told me 

we are trapped in 

bodies we don't deserve- 

i understand now, you thought life 

was nothing more than 

a river you could bend. 

you bent my mouth into words 

like 'love', like i was a son 

you could catch in a jar, 

splinter my heart to yours 

and make me call it so. 

make me say i am yours, 

it becomes hard to picture anything 

more cruel, more than being naked

or faultless, candle worms

its flame down to death 

and it is the same death again

as that memory

a tense flicker and something like 

a sermon of heat as i can still 

hear your whimper 

on my winter pelt- skinned 

rabbit, you told me clean

that i wore my father's jaw

his eyes 

his paleness. 

now it seems that he was a ghost 

that you unravelled from picked 

threads- you started at my toes, 

it was his skin, you yelled at me, 

and you continued to alter with slivers

until i was a blood bag 

my hair stuck like straw knives 

in your skin- your hands so 

sticky with his love, 

his red offering, 

yet you scrubbed him off silently until your skin 

shone. it was like every bit of ugly had drained  

and your heart so maimed with memory

forgets this 

but i sift through colours like seashells, 

till the blue returns with its soft memories 

and the yellow, its bright flame

and the red can be let go like a balloon, that is you, 

with love, my other heart, a storm of whispers 

and a fist for this:

call it tenderness. 

who am i kidding?

the crook warders
the same as ill
when what
as if something fishy sustains
that the ant in
or not at all

skimmed on the surface as lifeless
as tree leaves which curl.

or pheasants the same dears
as breadcrumbed postmen
delivered doorstep
by that which is pure

their smock, their curdled eyes
beneath that lumped fabric
of irish green

pennants death
the seeming of which is faint
almost lurid
she would say

though the out of it
interests more keenly,
talking soft water
to the shore

though crabbed
and here the jagged edges
sand away
at those who knew
pretended to.

you will never find bill under the milk again

It took me nice,
brandy on a spoon, cough
dissecting the syrup of your
milk medicine,

and it's all backwards from there.
moths, skin harbour, a grange...
a truck flattening
over road
 gravel spits
at my thumb.

i wanted to leave on a jet, but you told me they
were made of rubber bands, all
i can remember is how you blessed the
rams with serenity,
twisted jars

of honey, soft crooning in the suitcase field
and i have packed my expressions in with
a little twisting, though i recall how my testes
once sat pretty on your christmas tree,
with me buttered to the floor
and you like a pretty angel on the star point,
well, you let me lick at the ham sack.

i guess your cruelty showed in the twinkles,
my tongue is the only part of me you
wouldn't hack, after i had chewed off
your left nipple-
my teeth chatter about in the jug,
i think they line the bottom like little soldiers
heretofore they saluted your anarchy
with pearl.

now you have a geyser of milk like i had
with your soft pull of me, nail clamped,
rubbing tsunamis to lid the bucket with
fresh corpses of me and the ghost of our
child,

tough as it was
to remember not to savage myself in the
white of your eyes or get trapped
in your lashes.

it was swift seasons of this, teetering on
avoidance, or horsing around on the hay
cart, lumping my heart to the prose
of your dry wall, or was it pen-scratch? i stitched ink to your cream, a radish scent of thigh, flickered like glowworms and rabbited my way into your gloryhole.

but the orchards lifted their veil
and the sweetness promised soured with skyline,
but i flipped a dog chain on it's cloud wisp length
and sailed over to the oceans death, where my
asshole was mirrored, my name like fish scales
glinting, an ache you could say was like
every blood fist clotting
inside the memory of love; or just something
like fisting.

it's so homely to call me 'precious', 'bill' can't
be all there is to the well scratch of your pining
nor will milk soothe, i see it splashing out from you-
the thousand colours beneath blackness
scrambled in the bleach closet, its all just white
love leaking out, slinking inside the picture frame,
a body of expression bucketed, dancing

undone- i slithered across you, or away
on the birds' track, the rainbow way,

i remember love,
bitch.

the other months beyond, lone stanger

i must of missed you in october, in
november, this skip of december
i would dump fromage, butter, rose petals
and the moist ivory of that june lit memory.

but missing you is incomplete, it needs violence and
alteration, and facebook on thursday to sunday;
lastly, missing you needs me being missed by you.

it's the amber of played out daylight through to
a skinny neck night that lingers like memory,
like missing, it's the wrists before your hands
like the risk before my lips and the words i
risked to say,

that night, you know, i leaned.


your hands planted on mine sometime, there was fervour, jungles of light, a lip of melting where i strained against my awkward poetry, not knowing
if the very moon of my longing would throw itself kamikaze against the last cliche.


i hoped it was sunday for good, awkwardness and all, petals of you rinsed in lamp light, soft, enduring against the after all...linked like text messages we have suffered the other, i

like you,

have remained on sheets, beneath a halo, or out of touch, one seance from me remembering that you're a ghost, though memory is stronger than death, less kind that, than you: whispered by, lone stranger.

broken hill, 1993- 2000

beans like holidays
withered, black spots like sunshine
i throw them sideways till they learn
better than to wither

it's the tarp over the swimming pool,
1993, and i am in board shorts and brimming
my head over the water, my pale body
wants nothing and i am thinking less
than drowning more, rescued by a man, ok.
it's 37 degrees, the sun hops over the shade
and i stand on the steps but i want to go
where the sun is twinkling brightly.

it's nighttime and the revelry is in full swing
i think we gave up backyard cricket hours
before the beer whistled through the grown-ups
teeth, they had eskies like triage units
set by the fence, made better seats
than temples, i guess the swimming
pool haunts me, i can hear its pump
when there is a lull.

someones eyes crash into mine, i don't
remember who they were, it's nearly as
hard to remember who i was-
more evidence see, like pencil lines on the
wall. one of those years i was tall enough
to pull the pin on the fence and go into the
pool, i had forgot the sun, my hair would turn
green, i think i would go under and come
up again, rushing water from my face and
maybe i was 12, close enough to strangle
myself with awkwardness-

she wasn't my cousin, i guess everything can't be
as cliche as everything else, or what we want it
to be...but she was probably years older
and i tented slightly, and she grinned
like the same as when the sun was twinkling
in 1993 and the pool noodle and kickboard of bright yellow and weird purple bobbed at the surface
and if i dove in i would drown
but i did anyway

and i was rescued, but how do you rescue yourself
from the year 2000 and the cute but fiendish
mocking of a girl who you can't really remember
but for shorts which will dry on the fence
and be reshaped again and again by nothing
more than a memory?

-
i go back to the beans, i know them now,
that i have spilled them from open hands,
they are as slippery as memory, or
as well crunched upon, leaving me to
misspell nearly all that i am as i split my
shell on what has been.

see there was a boy

so there was a cradle

the button

off his pajamas lost

after mud in tea-cups 

playing nice for his sister and with the warp

of smiles

the damage is done in tow

in slowly unbuttoning 

his 

softness down to a man 

in a bed with his thoughts 

on being dressed, 

again. 

socks on, rocks off again

i hope i can be as young as betty white, less
less
fade out
elongate the "a" in your mouth,
well, it stands for my name,
but
really
i wanna put my cock in your mouth.
elaborate.
not the castellan.
not gentile.

slam shut the door, have a seat, pour wine into a bowl and stick my throat in

fish your underwear from
the nice reply i had prepared
it lacks the idealists ...punctuation.

gravity wears your panties in my dreams
i like the smoothness of your thighs,
the aching colour of your vulva,
the christmas tree of grooming,

want to hang my angels dead from it.

my sex wants yours,
with wry intent.

if my cock was in your mouth
i guess it wouldn't be in your pussy-
that's the logic of want.

but i am a good samaritan.
i think i'll leave my clothes on.

cosmos of us

it's like breathing in outerspace

my

oh

my 

so profound the cluster fuss

that years of hanging from the vine 

hoping that you'd pick me and dust 

me off with your tongue 

feels cerebral

rather than just plain love lorn.

i say IT'S LIKE BREATHING IN 

asteroids, comets, space dust,

splattered paint, dwarf stars 

and little rocks twined around her 

finger. 

it's the pulse of a star as you flicker 

the switch a million times or, 

playing my heartbeat: a million more. 

your hand is on the hand of another, 

it's tuesday, i imagine soup and day old bread

in an apartment where every step bounces skin 

pinballing jars, reliquaries, full of my tears 

and it's still tuesday and i see you out the window 

with a winsome smile and a man in shorts with 

mocha coloured skin, and i plead the heavens 

to explode and that gravity will pull you through my 

window but the nob is stuck and the air in here 

is still or sucked out and maybe by throat is 

wet or dry and i sip at my godless offering 

and you're sliced, stabbed, shredded by the window pane 

crashing through you and before you is a mirror 

and you see only my feet as i am rushed past 

you through the sky and into the sun 

and i am dead a million times or more 

than the time i died when you left me and 

it's like breathing outerspace 

but really it's like being human 

and not wanting to be all at the same damn time. 

"...changed the channel"

on t.v
the well dressed mannequins
hazelnut eyed wall paper
concerto concerto

the bassoon,  with sick mimic
i retched into a street
you would

walk over my body, my wild
side of offering
dead daffodils growing alive
by the chelation
of lead from my soul.

i was shot in 1998,
meryl streep in a silver shot
beard
like dropping b-52's
in a bar
for young hooligans.

last night
you asked me why i died,
and i responded by saying:
"you changed the channel".

catgut

my catgut eyes string themselves

my body is tuned too sharp

mouth like fishing line

mountains like silver clefts
over by the cloud wreaths

i purchased spain
from my worn
fallen out teeth

incisors hobbled on the table
by the hook and line

for you, i spend a comma
 make the poem pause

i celebrate you with less
words than

imagine:

a violin by your chin
and my song in a chair
with strings thrumming
between the light
begged by our eyes.

you have been my favourite thing this year

one time in

as if saying goodbye were harder than 

just plain gone.

my tears wont follow you north

but i am braver now, 

in song, in lullabies of poetry; 

ham-fisted

mocked by my keys as the settle into 

the door. 

they know. 

not sure if you do, as if spilled onto 

carpet and your feet get wet where 

are your eyes but on your phone?

_____

ten days will go, like snap, 

ten more, with a thud, 

till its thirty and three times 

or more

i hope that you beam, that i don't 

fall from grace

that afternoon sits pretty 

till it is night and then 

dawn and your face 

chops against the 

ocean

and i am listening to the wind 

so as to hear where my dreams have been.

dry-cleaning

one peephole defines

i was the gerrymander 

before you linked antarctica to africa 

with scotch-tape 

and whispered sweet nothings to 

climate change. 

it couldn't hear you: your choice to prowl 

the leaves 

love lorn and deformed

by christian parents

he who has served will be serviced forever

more. 

he whose junk on the verge attracted 

bee columns with fidelity 

an artist incensed 

smoked 

and thoroughly ignored, 

two belles 

loving the hats and the accessories. 

i was in a rush to clear my throat

i said i love you, i said: excuse me, ma'm

there's a fish swimming towards you 

but the air here is warmer than out west. 

i judged tin, 

sleet was on the wind, 

crafty water slid beyond me 

and i was dry humping the dust devils

     ignorant bier 

    a fence 

a fence a fence a fence a fence a fence a fence 

^ see?

i push myself over it to be on the side of words 

which really string 

into fathomless depths 

irony, collusion, twins 

on the side 

of what is right, what is

a four letter words for hope

and you give me love. 

spit on my frown, 

it's not worth dry-cleaning my face anymore.

on the lilac shift by the summer sprawl 

the pine needles are 

and the puppies are 

and the moo's are 

taking themselves to where they go, 

i don't know all this rigamarole 

about mud and lessons, trudging 

into mountainsides to take pictures of 

how damn much it hurts to be a rock

and the oblique parties of smiles i am

not sure how to respect, but i know they are 

oblique by the way i am 

in need of them, 

can't see the difference between reflections 

and reality. 

the more alive

that there can be a "more"?

i am unsure. 

bucking tempests 

i am strictly me, so 

 assume i am beyond the door. 

please don't knock :p

writing this letter (ii)

my throat is the animal
in a soundproof room 

lunching on soft growls, 

quieting my cock down...

eats mostly at me, nips
at the water,

long oars between the place i think we were
  when i can't say
or why,
it's unkind to be unknown
even to myself
yet

 your scars 

cut through and i am left on the shore 

watching sails pink into the horizon.

my words resist me, why would i want to say

'i love you'? when it sits clear in my reflection 

as i catch your eye and hold you to a smile. 

i can't lift your skies above me

chase away the birds that you beg 

to follow you

it's either me or not wanting to, 

they graft the same hurt on 

bleed me, even tailing 

cars the one behind 

wishes blood beyond my carcass, 

one headlight peeking 

over the swish of rain

another pounding into 

shadow. 

it's pain 

on every shoulder, 

not just lumps of hurt 

but buckets

twisting mealworm 

in my gut, 

and i bite every apple 

till i find the one you are 

pipped in.

forever spitting seeds 

maybe you grow, 

maybe acid licks off my teeth 

gums bright noose

you in some deep
cavern.

i have
pictures of you
but my memories
stagger into throat
and you are the drunk
swallow
bash love into my body
till i am bruised,
bashed animal
your cruelty i created
made myself animal
just to justify the way
out of being
this
in love with you.

-
i guess it's osmotic 

one memory here and 

one other 

that guy- with the europe lisp 

of power, he flicked you 

with love and then he jerked 

off till you knew he didn't 

want you in his puddle anymore. 

then another wrong turn, i hear 

he wants you back for more

and three moons later 

you are on the next plane,

criss-crossing 

love me notes between the 

continents. 

fucking might be worth it, 

to dangle pretty 

and let him flute
your cunt with a blow-torch.

maybe you can grow the weather 

from your tears.

i don't want them falling on these 

pages though, 

nothing comes from letters

and i want to be the one to stain you

with my chivalry, or the other thing 

paving over flowers, 

praying gardens stay lush
under winter
through to spring thaw

would race to you
four-legged, frothed,
cock headed,
with ten thousand teeth on
a chain

that i pulled from the mouth of your ex
so you could weld
it to my spine

and hold me as your hurt,
you know,

so it never leaves.  

on the phlegm of my throat wand
the presto
the i don't know
with years of time beneath me caking
to the black shelf of an egg bay
and the rotten stench wafts brightly .

 when keats writes:
"a thing of beauty is a joy for ever"
i am the beekeeper
and over my skin, you: protective leathers
or just beekeeper whatevers...

it's in seeing the honey
makes
me quicken for you.

like: i want you wrapped in the upward stretch
of the jasmines' spine. to nibble on your little
green leaves. breathe your jasmine scent
until i perfume of it.

it's in the stars though
that i am tired and swimming between
the lost space between the north
and the south, the ego
i left with you lies like broken furniture
roadside
the flight

is safe, is perfect, finishes off the broken sentence
where love gets jammed in my throat and
i cough and you blink

maybe i get missed.

no promises.

afternoon comes and the wires cross
the year i flayed
the eye, with
the settled stare

come acred, light on 10 by 10 000
hue of diamonds in vision, point by
point

the through of yellow
to the blackened chill of
seeing little people sleep in
dirt and grow fish from the bones
where they knew the fish grew on.

 have lived a year,
islands like demon
have thrown clots into
vision

of fire, or heavens
cycling

one star till it throws up,
bruises the night,
barnacled on a boat by the chop of the wave
it seldom seems
vague as when the sun
beams

lavender, or embers; light sparks
on
paper urban, angles
slivered inside more shapes

we could not want to see.

you're weird- 

water, 

the same silence cut ribbons 

on the rest, 

  the four men out back, 

  leaning again

  wind like sailing 

  sheafs of paper 

  a delicate sound

  

  run into the spinifex.

one was named Red, worn lime shirt, 

in sandals. a roman clef, pitched italian and 

waving empire 

 to the girl on the bike in the ruffled skirt, 

  with the sirloin lips and egyptian sand

   in her teapot.

ours was the same as that; a vision of ancestry, 

either tongued or not said, cadence of 

oars on water, the same sentence 

as the one i thought i read. 

it pulls us strongly, measured, assuredly 

to where the altar thrums, with charcoal bruising 

the air 

and the kids on the dock with their eyes on the clouds 

sing to their parents old songs wise and well worn now. 

we were the same as those fairy-floss tunes, 

sweet at first but more sticky, more cloying after seconds 

and thirds. 

it is nothing to paint you in beside those men

all i need was a photo and a brush of black sky- 

when the rain heaves itself across the pacific, that 

and a dry page, a 

fist of charcoal seemed to do, i smudged you one step 

behind Red, who had stopped looking sideways noting the 

the girl on the bike with euphemism tailing swift behind her, 

i set you there for him, the same vision calling 

me back to the tree-tops, 

where i could sit pretty, mangled, 

well away from culture, 

carving bark figurines of us

and noosing them with wind 

from up high. 

  

catshipgrin [???]13

the concert thickens
apropos
of thinning
the hair from
me from
my head,
and the
thief whose
in bed

with the cat
while the shark is tied to the poet
and swimming into the ship to get
it to know it

what??? the thief
& the cat, who
said that???

the think of it!
the grin to buzz at the pollen
the sip of petals to the sip
of beez

i am trying hard to
locate my shiftiness
and quit it of smoking cigarettes

in the looming dark, or  by the shape
of a lim-lit park

it's the quack which makes it watery,

the same as when the mast
barks at the "e" tells it "get back
inside" its gruff yellowed voice
(the same yellow as my shifty
fingers) the
iris rest my case against a beam of light
beer is
disgusting! no more sad
than done made

i am i am iam
one more i am from
4 in a row.
though it takes 6 cats to row
a ship to the place i last grinned.

i know i know
.

this menagerie is beastly.
i am the softest ever,
the loud, lounge
cage.

orchestra with straw in its mouth

your eyes turn me from gargoyle
into a church vault
almost as sure as trees
almost as sure as them
sure as

made naked by elevation
the umbra collapsed
into sparks

the
islands i sought to make for you
from the bread we broke
in the morning

turned to be vibrations
or the squeak of bicycle wheels
the lowered tyre its air pushed
withered sure
washed road i think i saw
your jeans in the puddle
that the pavement
lapped at.

i say
the sun was there but it wasn't
i collected your reflection
in 500 milliliter beakers
and maybe let flowers sip

or cars crash like dominos against
the spots where i wanted you

its definitely
the same mourning
as before

when my face is outside and yours
shut in books
the crank of days slingshots me
and it is your hand

that falls loose to change,
i am the spare,

the second theme
of bowling

played by an orchestra for no one.

i-rat

i got rats in my teeth
the island is drifting
and i got rats in my tea
i am an island
a rat drank me free
ire and ireland
got the rat in between

shortcut

italics and lies, they hand each
the same-
what? some ichor perchance,
soft and slow a clingwrapped life
judged upon the shift of snow:
a claw that rakes with
morning breath.

each sound in, each out,
snores ruffling the pillow
and sounds of keys
trying to unlock the sun.

their rattle awakens only the sly
monster from his cave in the honeycomb,
his unhurried steps
keep us frightened for days.

he is 9 foot tall and like
a power tool,

i grip the wall,
bite a lemon,
squeeze a tree,
noodle sympathy.

but still the monster
lumbers on,

i
cry, my
eyes
turn to ice.

he
comes.

*

a beat,
his fists lift the roof right of its bed
and he is peering down at me, pj's;
wall-clock; little ol' me.

snarls, his breath like two trucks
of ham,
and speaks:

time to die

voice booms over the pretence of quiet,
my lying heart feigns death,
and i slump into the bedpost.

when i wake,
snow has covered my body,

cinderella

i might peak out from winter,

it has been our season, 

the one a thousand days from now 

i'll be stuck in, rethinking, revelling in. 

all that happened was i feel for you, 

fell, falling, felt. fuck, it was all so junior, 

over the covers, touch of cinderella. 

i guess i must have been happy for like one hour

and now its bolted to my neck and i am drooling 

into cups, again. 

i was sanguine, that's it. that's all. 

now i imagine you naked, 

probably cause i am curious, 

or that the burdens of being undressed 

are the same weight as 

the drowning stone

tied to my chest.

i am imagined naked 

in the spring when my cock is thawed 

and my thighs have stopped glowing

when you fix your hair

tight against a smile

and i am dressed 

back in it. 

then leave me ticking on the wall

&

wait a few seasons to the rain.

she brought home snake beans
not wet anymore, you don't punch them with water
or mistake toddlers for grown men

or hurry from the ghost with the sparks of your
father's admonishment trailing at your feet,
what was through this then?

something was easy for ruin, the colour of
jets passing over fountainheads, rose
petaled, with thorns of fire, or crisp and
well?

is this door my perfume, letting me into your senses,
or am i leaning?

stationed to the safe-word you will never dare
to say. i am at the water hole

where tomorrow comes home to me
and i am the hungry war,

i want you to write me this poem:

 i love fists
 and call
 me

the cat, your special, i can purr to that.
whatever it is that draws me to you
still bruises because love is a strong hand
squeezing when we're apart

i love it when hands call
and yours is on the first ring,
call it: answering.

wish you were here
is playing on repeat
because they are
the words i need you to hear.

ampersand gourmet

i need some red to get better,
the celery bouncing back up,
it shouldn't bend...

there are more words hiking up to breathe
down on me, short of that:

the vegetables should be hard and lusty,
i mean, well groomed and less
tumour...or fur.

i am the words tonight,
worth salt and bread,
ampersand in between the bed-
to death!

short

poems are for dorks

but pork aint for porking!

beep beep

i am just sitting waiting for breaking bad to finish downloading-
it's the first day of sun, the wind is probing at the fingers
of some spiny plant beside me, i can hear its rustle over
thelonious.

he is playing tempo jazz, keying little moods
furlongs of nothing in a mountain,
outside of room; space adjacent; greyer than
could be's.

it's cool, i am wrapped in letters, waiting for the
sun to whisper away,
go inside-

the weather's out. warping birds, tall tree
the ivory on my feet is sock fur, the beats
all matter, beats breathe, they...linger.

same as fish song- open carats, sparkles of sharpness
a box with plenty of sides,
knives all arrayed in blood type,

i am the same as writing, the less, the less led
to slow-cooking. braised on
kernels of almonds, watching the witch
masturbate to the frozen swirls
on the cut.

i am.o.no.you.are.
two tins on one string, i call
you listening:

   there's threnody here,
   u be quiet
   i aint done

   to be dead while
   been list
    ening
  the whale out

the fridge, beep,
beckoning.

there is the whisper if

the bee 

wants to whisper in

-it's her, i know it is, 

with those words and those 

eyes, the panic shaped hair, 

with legs like the warmth 

you get from a blanket-

want to get wrapped in 

them. 

i want her tongue on skin,
teeth nip lip,
her pretty hands 

entwined in mine, 

i want her to lie to me 

about love, 

i want to be lied to, 

i want to be forgotten, 

but i can't forget. 

i am a fool, a coward, 

and, i hope, she is too.

i can't whisper with this tongue 

all swollen, 

it has barrelled itself in words.

warhead

it was a thousand texts ago and you were all smiles- 

i was tongue, 

  the silo, the exhalation 

  without any 

  goddamn thought for any other 

  breath

  with the warheads all like waves 

  creaming corn 

  and pulsing the salsa. 

it was a million to one

with the clowns all painted black- well, 

i am clowning now, 

and there are pockets of you 

within me, 

but my hands exhaust themselves 

just trying to reach for yours.

it's sad.

and my tongue is 

nothing.

i can't stay mad you

because when you smile it's the warmth
of a thousand suns setting my skin on fire

but mostly that just means you have burnt me to cinder.
and how can you put a leash on my remaining cells?
all they do is squeal for you, like rutting little pigs,
i guess you want to though- lock collar,

trot me out of the barn and two-step, well, prod
me into a canter, spark the switch,
bust my flanks into a blood trail

so you'd know the way back when.
dragging my embryo into the graveyard, the barn,
the field, the candle's tail--

its all about the smoke, you love the fire
more than you love me, because you don't-
i see it in the rain, and in the silence.

i see you standing with your hands melting all over my
body, eyes of tallow; the colour of curdled milk
with flakes of yellow speckled on the remaining
stumps you'd call my bones.

i see your teethmarks on them, i pain for it,
incisors knifing into vision.

before dusty...this was chiselled.

the flowers were out pollinating your name

or it might have been the bees, you may have 

been the picking, the string of green stem 

licking at my knee.

after my glass has raised itself to the sun 

and the rain comes thick and viscous, 

a murky sludge of words like white frost 

settles over my tongue and is embedded there- 

in the rock, by the dates which freeze you in time. 

i should say it was rock,

 my lord of sad forevers- 

shaped it into stone. 

dusty -- not good or anything. forced writing at a time when i was tired and felt like shit.

i think you think my mind is a flower bed 

where you can plant your little bouquet and 

let your stone roses die. 

my eyes wave at you 

what with them knowing where you are

and wanting you to know that i adore you. 

last may when the rain came 

i was thawing out 

in the… fuck you

i want to live in secrets 

so i can be in your life

and roll myself in carpets 

till you notice how dusty my life has become.

(still) i want this over

i made myself into sadness. branded with a butter knife 

and dripping garlic on the iron carpet of my life.

its the soft shell of the bulb, the lopped off green sprout, 

i don't know, you could call it: my filleted stench. 

its purplish, the emotion. might be horse drawn 

from the hayloft where i hide my love needle. 

that stupid thing which stitched my pulse to yours. 

i should water it down with bracken water, the purplish- 

in a lilting sea of murmurs, or tsunami of catcalls 

where i avoid saying things that i shouldn't say. 

like: i want to fuck your brains out. i want to lick your feet, 

your armpit, your baby bonnet…you know, that thing 

you hide me under and go all gooey for. 

mostly your wrinkling your nose at the shit you have left me in, 

with my carcass of sad facts trailing behind that garlic fountain, 

leave me to oblivion. 

i don't want you (anymore), 

i don't need this fucked up heart

and fucked up head, 

i want you to leave. i want you gone,

i want you. 

(still.)

(best)

It was the mattress that night,
that night, that night:

consumed by the candy of hair and light
that night that night

it was the rhyme that
ate at him, the beauty

of her twinkling eye, where she winked
his shudders
and his pulsing trouser hose

frightened him from sleeping
or sand bagging his room from the tears that
the poets would weep for him

that night   that giddy
wing of black coarse no-light
cab call

no-fuck, no suck, just a blister
from kissing.

no hickey, no quicky

i wasn't ready, i was 'oping
that this would be the best night
that night that night

and it was. it was.

the cab was called, i recall before midnight
which i say

is great- it is sublime, two thumbs
kissing the upwards draft of cold air
she left behind

that night: that night,

we played rumi,
i left my dignity with games, im not sure im
the best for what the stars foretold
they don't have heart, mine was beating
out of my throat, and you could hear
it in my murmured words -
coquettish, lassoed
to little flakes
of love.

i don't how to finish this,
there are vowels and other sound outs
i could use, i could plunge my mind
into the thinking of a goldfish.

think 'i don't know how to fish...this?';
and the weeds are still growing
and the cards are on the wood shelf
by the books and the purse of my
childhood where i am standing
in cardboard clothes and am
the roy orbison of whatever night that
would have been.

i think i want to keep thinking of that night,
that night, that fucking night
and idolise it,
bank it and bank the interest i
fucking hate myself with,
will love be mine
will it?

i really suck at pinball, that's what i know
the ball just goes down between the little flippers
and i know it will:

that's my hope right there. bottled.

and bleak.

attempt at prose

It was raining hard. 

The night like stacked cans sort of faced into him with little words like "soup" or "tuna" or something like "msg free" but he wasn't hungry because of the rain, it was the couplings of lightning and thunder like poetic beasts grunting against his solemn ritual of using the window to hide from the outer world. Strange that the sounds of chaos would cause pangs, hunger and the vice of love like a thieving hand caressing the puff of cheek, the strong set jaw, the candle of dreams he lit for her. 

She wasn't there. Out the window, to his eye. He thinks he can make a room in his heart for her though and she would live in it the same as furniture lives in the dust of a room occupying the wood and the stasis of normality. He thinks she would like this room of gilded butterflies, entreated vows, of slow clocks ticking backward and in between these lurking items on the wall a nice kiss or hug. But he doesn't know that vows aren't for asking but for giving. 

He must not care for her, he knows he wants her though. I would want her too. 

She has pretty eyes, a race track of teeth, columns of eyelashes that go begging to be wished upon, if she landed awkwardly on the curb i would break my hand off and lend it to her standing. She is a white girl, a whirlwind of beauty and she isn't distracted by herself but cares for others, i think, a little too much. Her being white isn't a merit in itself, but she has golden hair and when the sun moves to high five God at His making of her the shored river of light beams into the unkempt strands that lightly mull at her plait, or when i see that she has her hair down and her fringe curls to her eyes i am beset, or bewitched. She has the same face that the moon would have if it were a little more awake. 

candle

your misbegotten flower suffocated in a jar of bells 

all jangling, banging their tonsils again

it was thursday- or it wasn't-

 she was wilting 

on the sabbath, sipping at the ocean 

beyond the glass. 

i prayed ten times that day, 

all the hours i could hold myself together to, 

whispering to my knees and 

knotting my eyes 

to the rain. 

the kettle boiled 

and i clenched my fist over the 

red dress that was beating at it. 

the calendar wanted to say hello, 

this was a month later; i 

had the candles blown 

but i always found puddles 

beneath the spit tracks adorning your picture 

frame. 

i want to stick long needles in july, 

but my hands are full remembering 

the correct way to hold your shoulders 

in the bath. 

  there the candles flickered

  sucked into the spigot, 

  and drained. 

i was always the first to get in, 

you told me my feet were conch shells

and this reminded them of home, 

it was always that way. you- with 

the grape stain, i was hunkered 

down, or softly exposed

to peeling 

caressing the dream of sweet fruit, 

i wanted to suckle you till midnight

and swell into child-birth, full-blown 

turning out the lights on cribbed romance. 

i wanted to remind you that it's my birthday, 

 you died. 

shy to

oh there we go 

i remember how to write: 

its crack on the love tit, 

20 years left to when my twin boys 

manifest shadows 

and throw them 

up against me like it was my fault their mom 

was on the cow riding dairy out of town.

fuck ice-cream, fuck 

most things. 

its lighting the shiva doll 

 i spun from bean shoots 

or the ants call to 

their ant mounds 

and you: two

thrown bricks arced into the frail pit 

of my skull, 

with the gentlest of magnifying glasses 

chinking on the rocks 

where my blood 

dwells. 

_

its soft again, 

the jazz, brazen as 

ruby hubcaps 

i was the bill she sent to you, 

forgiveness working 

me like steam

windy in here- 

i was the  window and 

she was the finger 

drawing hearts 

that always 

shy to light.

meh (at tired time: 9 30 night) wtf?

i think i called you petal-
felt like a toddler on a real horse.

bivouac in a trench with otters and
french lettering,

plastered my hair back on,
gunshots like horse droppings.

i think l left you in a postcard
and let you sail into the ocean,

bastards brink
under a halo where the blood

drips from.

(you're) the jelly-bean in a jar of sardines

and i could kiss your flight, 

when you tumble into clothes, 

your warmth like a brush of sun 

on the skein of your hair; 

i slightly love it when the shampoo rinses 

and i am left to drain into a puddle, its 

a tangle to be out from you. 

your sandalwood slip beneath my nose

like the fine wine i would sink your 

body into, to bottle that scent and 

braise my bones in it. 

i would ache on my lips and let you hug

me, sometime after 

with the forest in ash flakes come 

breakneck from the sun, searches

in vain for indigo address marks on a wine 

glass. its a short hop from wings 

to being naked in a bathtub 

with a candlelit syringe.

why, i am writing non-stop

poems.


but i want to watch porn in an ancient city
soak myself in the dust of its old bones

stop writing! that's a direct order
i gate myself to,

but i wont.  i am flowers
and rain today, smell like salt
if it smelt like old linen, and
after these words are written

i will be the paramount,
the neighbour,
the swan i
have always feared

its unfriendly, its orange tinge beak,
its pique of black feathers, its envelope
of white where white might peek out from.

i am fearful of that bird,
its a hack,
im a hack,

a filthy clone on the chameleons
bed almost a blanket but more
the socks bored from soaking
in the need to bleed my feet.

more the blood than the dried
mistletoe i exchanged for my
big one, well

now i know not to dangle feet over
the sky.

to type-O's

1. mash the stars into gravy of the deep black 

universe and pickle the sun in a jar next. 

2. sleep in-doors, in windows, make the mannequins 

    reach for your head with bullets. 

3. fuck your professor and gain a new accent. 

4. it better not be french. 

5. slip your skin into the bathtub and 

    glow like rain in hiroshima nightmare. 

7. forget about sex

   and forgive my nous,  

   and 

drink to typos. 

grove/growing/hair flowers

one vein of the hairdresser
no more tattoo,

  the dreary spell of being warm-to-
  telly, this arc of scissors and
  the point of criss-crossing
mirrors ?

i [no!] ink my hair,    that's no more
i was crinkled beneath visions
of hammers and turning screw

some birds know
that the abbey

is the lords birth being born
and the nights

they sleep in wont shelter or pickle
them in jars that children will peek to.

i will breathe my own air,
that is the cruel part of falling
(love)

and that the bark of my chain
is the only loud part
of my drag,

crawl through dresses that smell
of you, or you

sweetheart.
i want to bury my bone and my hair
in your sick, your poor,
your burdens

and grow a new us in a grove
where the sun is happy and the clouds
lake in the mirror of blue
and easy pleasures.

building churches

i want my heart to plagiarise nick cave

in a letter, or a fast snail, i want to 

rain on the words i'd have felt to write 

on its spiral shell. 

lilt into phrases that don't mean the same 

as when i say them.  my tongue 

gets clipped by my teeth and its just a 

muted snow; a blooded telegraph to the 

piano; forest pulled under red 

blankets; the trees cut to sheaves. 

their is 15 feet to go and you are shivering

and the snail is in the lumber yard

and i can wait to the wind laughs 

but no more, its easier to be cruel 

on my own than to whisper you 

a church. 

and to pretend that 

you would be warm and i 

would stop 

with the bells, wit 

and bleeding.

bill's hands

he should of kept them to himself,
instead:

he tugged on a rainbow,
bill was on the other side,

smothering yellow back.

bill was on the table
on the knife,

bill was in butter,
              in caramel
               in a cow

one time bully the kid
said he loves it when she hurts
so he wrote her about
feeling down

and she broke into his piggy-bank,
and married the lemon tree.

fuck bill though,
he only wants to fuck.
bill is the oil on tar
and is the braille
for a hand

with no fingernails.
bill's
flame is on low,
and his
bathtub buddy
is really really
dry.

he thinks he burnt her
and is smiling because he
can cry.

through the rainbow

i was what you wanted from me:
to be you,

your perfect self summoning
smiles from the cruel yellow
crayon of your imagining.

or i am me:
a yelp, a cry for help,
the anguish of having too much heart,
that my heart is sorry for itself
can't beat to imagining.

my lips the colour of murmurs in the dark,
yours are the same as this text.

i am trying to sever the umbilical,
but every time i piss i feel your mouth
clamping onto the nappy,

i think that you want to save me
in patches, that my yellow stains
are the same nicotine bend

that hug your sorrows at night.
it;s a tiny arc in a teensy window
where you go fishing,

through the rainbow.

and rainbows

fuck you,

if vestige were the word
i would have felt it
creep

soft as cat shit

on the flume
in my paper sail-boat
losing my shadow
to you

or- i would have banged the coffin
shut
maybe i would have felt your forehead
like my real mum use to

and she would love me like i was
meant for it,

but i don't feel that tender spoke
on my lonely wheel.

i guess your bathtub
was reproof
to my slight cling.

all i could do was slip back into it,
and you'd hose my spine
with teethmarks,

and we'd sing ourselves
the bible on how to be
in love

with cat shit and
tyre tracks.

beating

i was aching to lash my feet into the wet balcony tile

and my knees were scenting the rain like budding dogs

flowered out from their small furs. 

my mouth is dry and i am guilty knowing 

i have made someone feel something for me, 

and that person is probably at fault 

but i am writing this with my fingers and 

my own trophied destruction is at hand. 

And i fucking love to feel like shit and 

bash my brains out on poetry 

and i love to cry, or be close to tears 

and feel like i have come unstuck from 

what i was and what i should become. 

And i want to rub eels on my chest

and let them crawl into my vortex, wriggle 

like fingers in cement as i shovel 

more shit out from my heart. 

my heart is the problem, i don't know why. 

is it because it just keeps on fucking beating?

Sexy Teen Lesbians

well, that got your attention,
as if somehow eavesdropping
on flight-attendants was
all you could
devote to.

but that poem was centuries ago
when porn still masted over the sky
and it was facials everyday
all brazen and quick tongued
haiku.

in days when flamingos did the 69
and it was the most awkward beauty
since Snow White had that gangbang
in the forest of the night

and the apples were speaking in tongues!
and the blossoms of snow sniffed around
the wind like wet dogs on sand.

it was yesterday too,
wit as shiny as her oiled tits and
spotless asshole. you were like:
i could grate cheese on that ass!

pass the salt.
or have i run out of it?

if i was writing this a thousand years from now
the only groans would be of the continents
massaging the ocean, and the sun--
the only voyeur left

seeding solar flares into amazon-dot-cum.

once more with feeling

i deleted all the things i wanted to say here. but some notes:

back-hooked sweater

a brave wait

a kiss 

a swithering 

relief; more swithering. 

cushions

grass

a cliff

watching the light die in your hair

your hair light up all the parts of me i thought might have died.

the queen of hearts.

the joker.

relating. 

tears

a

sadness.

room-ination. 

coffee. 

who?

in

love

with 

you.

not being able to.

seeing.

hands 

cold.

the long goodbye that never 

ends.

the needle and the needle done

it was prose

                   sure the sounds o violin
                    pack the surf in a suitcase
                   was it not

seed and burrow?

easier that way. to be too close to bones,
touching the insides where the ideas are knitted
in a loom.

my family was
stitched on the back of it,
out of copper wire, and crushed
sand specks were

dotted over my lovers eyes. in colours of melted
steel and salt ochre.

    my loins were timbre snakes
    threading
    the ocean

were wet
placed in the bucket dervish
and the caterwaul

of sandcastle angels broadcast the rain
from the eastern mark of me.

    the bits of mud my old friend
    collected from the golem

     shape like teeth the outer ridge
     of the loom.

 i ask him questions     [oh God

 what deseeded me, what
 first recluse
 sailed into the heavens on
 a paper jet?]

and he is the silence of an abattoir.


...
but its ok, mum is smoking old laundry
and the cat is coming on the first wave
down.

oasis oassing

she was idle, 

and laughter with the same intent as rain

smouldered by the corner where the 

girl was perched. 

it was crisp lunacy bathed on the frost of the 

dwarf morning, with heart-shells 

and pastures of coffee

linked by the death of sleep. 

i was howling by the forward cut 

of time, with the earnest crass 

decision to live bouncing 

like ice sculptures between me

and the sun. i was in that howled dance

of ghost chirp, molten and featherless

against the brash tongue of age, 

when you came and clipped 

the she from idle expectations. 

though, somewhere, faster than 

a cannonball...a bullet dreams 

for freedom.

candles and parents before bed

{scene: it's the girl and the family dressed around the dinner table,

two big candles like miniature suns sparkle
the father, the mother
ask questions like the other,
they are well attired and so full of things
that i don't know why they need to eat.

the dad has glasses on and looks at things like
they might break if i touched them.

the mom has more heart than most and thinks
that the more you smile the less you hide.

there is another girl here, the girl i am withs
sister:
taller and a little bit afraid to prove it,
wants to know my antipathies as to
prove what must equal my less honest desires,
i glance to her every now and then to show
her that i know,
sometimes startling, but to be brave
i don't worry about where this will lead.

i know she knows, what? i am not dangerous,
just less attractive than the comfort of equanimity.

there are plates and things too.

so the scene is set.}


after the rose, the plucking becomes easier,
a bled hand full of thorns.

we are eating, chatting casual, lurk
and duck the things i mean to say,
but the bird is tasty, i comment
on that, the mom is all "not too
dry" and i am "not at all."
...
its the fragrance that first attracted me to her:
small, casually enticing, and i am not so sure
what let her let me through the door.
...
but after the first glass of wine i left
my hand near hers and she squeezed it
like someone who was wanting to,
the dad noticed we caught each other
in the doubt that is so ever present in
roadkill.

the peas weren't mushy, no.

i was getting a little brazen
told them the story of when i was just
a boy and went naked to the girl
i liked.

i think i was just in that shirk the nappy phase,
climbing fences and mastering the art of
coffee service through dirt, 

and maybe they thought it was cute,
i told it with care but i know that it opened
the envelope to see me naked with her.
frightful- dad, with his knowledge of stamps,
wouldn't let her go cheap though,
and i think mom was caught between the 'mom
moment' and the imagining of being young
again.

big sister was checking her phone,
there was a bit of gravy on her face,
i guess i could of texted her.

the one i was with
was smiling

and cute and in her element by the picture
on the wall of her in a gown and cap,
smiling like the one she was wearing now,
smelling of rose oil and the dust that libraries
seem to shelve, i had to be myself

in that moment:
sipping from the adult glass. not just blurting
out, holding through like a hand squeeze,
aching on to words,

i love you.

it was private, and this dinner crowd
was all about the candles and the splutter
of wax, seeking out the shadows
with the irony of flame,

but later, in her room
when she was messing her hair out of its bun
and warming her feet in cute bed socks
i told her
and she told me too.

and the dinner was nice, but this,
i knew:

was perfect.

{jazz improv.}

tense, a smatt erring
a , a , a bovine
a cat, you with that
you you
you with, with,,, with that

i am on bread sticks
composed, doze,
miles out to sea


lured
lau
gh

out, and  out about
you with, dithers,
slip.... o ... o ..  ta to
go the fing--ers


it ittiitiiti
it...it
lingers
long
so


so

so oho oho oh. !!!

just dress sleeves
be the best
that  that
that
you can be. . .
   .

(please) don't get ahead of yourself

its not common,
or the safer path

at once the purist with with brick noise
hand clap, the red blood crane
tip-toeing marshlands, you; picking fish;
printing ideas in the back of your mind.

i was afraid of this.

that you would fancy
your loved, that i am your beloved.
or that that the wet smell
pooled on your carpet, so
astringent, so well rebuked
could form a tidal wave
and pull my body into
gravity.

flightless against the clip
of your devotion.

i was searching the Beehive for answers
in the cello bathed sky light

i was roman with my first name,
a tawny emperor with socks

to match
the
ample shades
oozing from errant goblets.

if thirsty i am sure i could find my mouth
somewhere sucking on grape-vine.

and my hands plucking at the fish-bones
the songs to make the widows weep.

after all,
what is power but the slavery of sense
by something
i
sluice with imagining?

preamble

they was -
that's not right,

they us,
no-

a pair: recluse, dancer

 the former on ad break
 asking:

what's it be like when you are your body 
and nothing outside of it?

her eyes limp into seeing:
  a coral reef
  and 7 million fish
  slipping socks on the ocean.

he was battered, more
internally busted than dancer.

she was just trying to enhance his
something.

after the show, when the chairs were in the glee
of whispering,

she aches a little into him:
    ...the last
    prairie,
    inches,
    the smallest
    wave to
    grass
 

the otherwise king of these

he was,
after accidents in braille with the dots
lurching into drunk
attempts to kiss the

girl in the room,
the one with taffeta cheeks
and bruised eyes
sweating onions
on a hassled pan.

he was,

too full, tuning into
the wavelength
of granite

or maybe it was just the way
she handled the pan.

rabbit origami

i am considering just lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling

look at me, with the parting smile
of a violin and the grace of a man

i am violence tonight
smirking at corners and
lighting fires, there was a brace of birds

or was it rabbits?  nestled amongst
the praline limb of a debonair tree,
ears flossing out the secrets of the wind,

i guess they were hung there by a gentleman.
a man with teeth, set in gentlemanly positions.

and maybe i am too earnest when i cry,
like when you were on the pedals of a steinway
coming across the ruination of chopin
and all i wanted was to slide my body
from all of the coffins i
dreamed of.

  i thought it was nice that you played for mom and dad,
  that the origami of your fingers was something
  folding out from love letters
  i had meant to write you.

 was that something else worth considering?

eschar

it was the slow turn of pages that dribbled into

sound

and the round cancers of katherine

that rounded into sounds 

---

i think i tried to write there and failed. mostly i wanted to use the title word as to remember that i had found it after "eschatology" had wandered up to me and said 'hello'. 

its not about thought but feeling

think about this:

 when i see you looking at me i hope its called
 falling in love

thinkthis:

  i love you a,
  so much that i would stop looking at you
  if you stopped looking at me

what???


i was dreaming this:

cuddled into you, paraphrasing
a lava lamp as it murmurs
into darkness,
brushing your skin with my knife
hand and the only thing i cut
is the fear that you will let
me go.

because i know that you care, and my heart
is ok, because it keeps its count by listening
to yours.

talking

sometimes i say to me: "move on

the birds too close to your skull," 

followed by straits of nothing, yellow dots, 

my lines like loops are tangles are 

continuous, are tangled. i hold

the rails. i forgot how to spell 

your concerts of muttering, aching 

garbled show tunes, they shelter 

beneath my tongue like pencils 

in a soft-red case, somewhere else 

there are clowns and they are hollow

now. 

the wind has checked their spines 

into atomic halls for waste, wastelings, 

and wastage. your waiting, i can tell 

by your clucks. they come like 

seaweed lapping at my feet. 

you turn sideways from the birds, 

cloaked in your feathers- black 

and bristling, your still turning, 

and the skulls that you pretend 

to feed have grown into men 

who, later, you will pretend to have known.

--apr, 11

frame

i look at my toes, 

 the other way is easier, 

in a gallon of lysol, glasses 

gleam 

nadir of something cute

and sideways. 

i look at you. 

you are there but for the thought of you, 

getting older now, grass stains are now just stains, 

the trains run away, your feet lack toes. 

i look at you- 

deformed, waiting like a lion

for its queen to feed it, 

  but you are the softest pink, 

  somewhere in a park 

  memorising the sounds 

  of ducks. 

one swan might die, they mate for life, 

your scars have selected you as their heir

and silent throne.

you want another to crawl into the skin, 

probably below the knee, so you can see me

stare,            

skirt swishing against the tide

frowned upon by your sweater, 

like a symbol for awkward 

juxtaposition- i cower behind 

the sun. 

i know that you like trains, like their gait, 

their soft rhythms and clicks,  

clipped of toes, pretending the rails 

were sand, 

i think i made you out of clay. last night, 

when 'The Old' had shut, the clinging 

hands and beer nuts had overwhelmed me, 

i think i think

i saw you kissing the sky, Hendrix would not pretend, and i borrowed you from some abstract, 

stuck you on my wall.


--may,11

smile

she was left alone too long, 

sitting and quilting, 

crocheting little destinies that she imagined

would crown her in all the heart 

and happiness she would ever need. 

it would sharpen her resolve

and her lunacy would rise like the sea, 

hair would flutter about her face; so solemn, 

as if that hidden expression were 

studying every nuance of its obstruction- 

    and replicating the shade her eyes would seek. 

she in summer, her darkside like a wistful cattail 

would wrap around the afghans leg,  

and in the cinnamon dusk, the shrew 

would fall to shadows, wallow by the window

flit at the teethmarks on the frame. 

soon she would die, and she knew that, 

but the lost part would never return, 

knowing this and a smile were 

all that she could suffer,  

so die she did. 

--dec, 11

smiles

thank you for the escape

we're here- - 

where the fields pop like bubbles 

vision of sepia, grain, a murky bible 

of pastures popping 

presided over

by electric sheep, 

my slash of hope 

and somehow you find 

a ship in a bottle 

we step inside 

and board to be
whisked into a
world we belong

in a truth: no matter how tired 

or trite the handhold, the smile, 

the freckle 

a glimpse of clouds and 

feet dangling out the bottom

sometimes we run up the sky

and down to the sea to take 

a sip

paling salty water into our hands 

sometimes the others abandon us 

and the moon has forgotten to die

we drown in the sea, but the waves 

ripple us into smiles, and we think that

is nice, 

we smile and float back 

and some storm by and vacations 

and suns and planes going 

to other places, 

smiling. 

--aug,12

visions of orange

we were once children playing at the sky

letting clouds droop in like postcards from the far away, 

ship a little thunder in, mince up the heart 

sausage it out into pretty things: 

 little lemmings leaping 

 little lemmings 

 leap. 

you can alter wine with the glass, 

mothers always seem to do. 

sunset comes, it has a brush and molten mouth

like painting and glass blowing all at the same time, 

once older the thing is shadow, older then;

we stretch our bodies into light. 

when orange is the smallest colour 

i open 

my eyes and it is screaming 

i hear, 

opulent sands, banked to the jaded blood 

of the sea, white-wash

heaven screeching at the rocks, the

twinkle of told fortunes

sifted in light fingers.

--oct,12

it was raining permanent marker
and you had the only umbrella

wishing i could shelter
i poached my fears and cracked
a smile, scrambled to
to be in front of you

but the shell was weathered,
and you, well, chocked on
my forehead.

spat me out:

there were dicks chirping on my face.

smack baghdad

(le) i sm

bad ab

crunching butter

spam 

sams bad

smack! bad dad.

new post: writing new post: poem for posting:

well o,
that was fun

:
you were half an emoticon from
the erotic terror of grasping my plain
civility,

where were the blue lights?
water wheels, and sharpies, the
candelabra eagled on your fathers mantlepiece?

i was breathing
(think the snow was mouthing sweet nothings
to my mother)
and why are my parents so in
on the basement brushstroke
of my poem?

i was sure i was trying to picture you:
   aqua, charcoal, bent candles
   nifty in the pants.

the kettledrum spoke over,
is shrieking- even now,
the lit

ermine couch is growing fur,
(i was trying to get it
to soften)

but you weren't into it. and after
the wine had left i was
tasting the whip

and kneading my hands into better versions
of my longings.

i forgot this thing even existed

but maybe i shouldn't have. it's corrupted by my faulty keyboard although blameless for my mistakes or gruesome visage, surely, you can't smoke it it for being ghostly in my absence.
I am the absence. Help i'm a rock!

if i wrote more then writing you would come the fore. thanks to my sensible head i am stuck in the night sky when all around me is the short embrace of day, i cling to the moon, no? a small purpose in an otherwise grand telling of this cosmic joke:
 life. la.

 i should be unfettered, should be poet more, fridge-light less. lit by stars not the junked containers and cold air pushing waves of moulding cheese...yes, regret.

 i am going sideways now, focus dear. the vision i need is shrouded. the sounds are all tangled in each of my speakers.