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.