I should slow down
sometime
which is not so say
I live an accelerated life
but I should
slow down
let violence find me
with its dripping tongue
             wheeling vista

my new book is available to buy or download here

oh my fuck

honey's new set is amazing

oh my fuck

i
am going to
kill
the men
digging up
the pavement
with
their stupid drills
at 7
in the fucking
morning

Problem of Evil


every time I looked into
the corner of a darkened room
waiting for Satan's amdram
to deliver its line between fact
and truth - the red crack in our
chequered curtain - part of me
turned its back on this world
but

whenever I held a knife, and
explored its whispers of light
I was complicit in preserving
the silence of the house
for reasons I'd received
in reflections
but

while wallowing in moral muck
with one eye on my audience
whose mouths I tried to touch
the other eye was groping for
a weakness in the earth
that gave entrance to a place
from which my soul
would not escape
but
       there was never anything
       was never anything there

Paper Bag

After the floods,
he picked through the rotting debris
and found a barely preserved paper bag
on a low shelf in the hall. Inside,
the toothbrush and tube of paste
he'd bought to leave in a woman's home,
for those improvised nights and mornings.

Forgetting the smell
and rank humidity, he studied a while
the objects, artefacts of a time
when an isolate man made
gestures of nesting in a lovers' ambience,
keenly unheeding of an old force
building up.

After the find,
he described his discovery to the cat,
who nodded along
to his master's account; the significance
of the items now observed, the flights
of heart and mind now retraced,
if not kenned.

Where are the humours' displaced wants?
Do they sit behind the mirrored door
of the medicine cabinet? Flit
between the bottles in the liquor chest?
The world of things seems welcoming
to them. "I tell ya boy I swear I heard
a rustle."

Winter

better late than never:

Rain Over Bouville / Vol 2.0 / Autumn 07

Years


The residue of you is spread
across the sheet of day.
Our mouth has dried.

Impotent with love, I am
looking at truth with too few eyes,
at faith in too few skies.

Beauty, beauty, beauty
drives my crowd of years to mime.
And yet I still repeat ourselves.

The Deflowering


and in
a dream, I wrote on the wall
in the space above the pictures
of your favourite stars, I wrote
something about a Day
and a Heart
and an After, in the style
of the pioneers of song

and in
a graceful counter-whim
I erased it, while you
and your companion
sat cross-legged, looking on

there are so many parties out there
dear, so many rooms

there are so many men
and boys
and curious girls
all with affections poised
awaiting your breath on theirs

go to them
weave around
explore your reflection in
waverless eyes

for godsake
make an effort; I know I would if I
bled your kind of elixir

hell, I'd be the second coming
by daybreak - but that is
your calling

so go to them
and report back to me
so that I may address your image
and consign it.