many of these were written quite drunk and edited post-mortem... this page contains mature content!

she stands tittering shock-still muttering
under the wireline bursts.
there is no place better than where I'm headed,
no altar more natural for my kneeling,
no soap more potent.
and on the way I'll have to figure out the language is all,
their little foreign tongues poking at the seams,
but if it's something I can master we'll soon find out
and pull on fleece coats
and that'll be that, won't it?
she punches tickets,
fights her way through crowds,
weaves her way past a toy baby and cradle.
everything is perfect on the street again.
but that can't be the end of it,
I imagine they'd have to work, too,
and tread carefully,
and take up pilates, dishes, studying, driving to hospitals, modesty, a light dinner, gratitude, mediating, rejecting only when there's a man they're more loyal to, be it God or Husband, and again, driving to hospitals.
but I imagine they'll make space for me,
that I can get by without so much questioning,
I don't expect they'll say I owe it to them even then,
at least I'd be allowed to expect.
it's only then, catching her reflection in the window, that she remembers to pick up razors.


whispering tongues
did you know that flirting has gotten me nowhere?
God shines golden under my nightlight
and I'm begging to be kissed,
this time not just to ease the paranoia of a too-dark room,
more to demonstrate my prayers: I can be good
and did you know that when I bite
I bite down on the corner of my lip ripped raw,
because I can take these sorts of things,
I can be good for you Lord
even if you won't stick out your neck for me,
I can take these sorts of things.
did you know I'm terrified either way?
did you know that if you look for long enough-
which I could take depending on you line of sight-
you could get me to squirm a little harder,
you could get me to overlook your judgements,
you could get me to Heaven?


demolition two billion and five
the convulsions of
this summer being a rice shaped callus surrounded by smoke,
isolated this moment lasting forever.
I will not forget you, live.
breakfast being lunch, being sore throats drenched in blood,
whole clumps of it gliding through my insides being warmed through from
the blinking in harsh light, cigaretts I have smoke, people I have been
or have occupied or have become, have closed tabs on
this laptop telling me to look back at my memories,
break for lunch,
return tot he things I have stopped doing, haven't missed.
this summer being unmoving under four walls and the luck
of this window facing against six established gardens,
what is pinned into my memory, what I have lost in
six whole weeks, unmoving, silent, yellow inculcating
the light that pervades shut eyelids, committing to memory that
mantis shrimp don't see colours like we do,
that the ocean is somewhere soaking up the smells and smokes of
this summer, being partial to my life, divorced from my insides and
arranged around my room, patterns of my aimlessness
hanging between the light fixture and the head of the wardrobe,
model planets drooping in the heat,
the ocean trying to mop up the state I currently occupy,
pushing it away saying my pain is my own
you don't need to ripple though it.


resignation
i always feel like you’re slipping through my fingers
like i’m the middle of the hourglass where two glass shells concave
and i am only there to slow you down before you hit rock bottom.
i am wading into the sea scooping your muddied figure
seconds away from a carcass would it even be
worth carrying you back to land?
i tilt your head to tip the water out of your mouth the
waves come rolling in just high enough to sweep the roof of it
rinsing over your teeth i cannot lift you any higher.
you are nothing but muddied sand i realise
there was no body nothing to die in the first place
i stand with water to my waist howling with laughter
like you really tricked me good this time.


on death soft parts are decomposed quickly
even pressing down on me like this
you are weightless and immortalised,
i shut my notebooks and i will stop talking about
justice end personality focused more on knowing
whatever that is than the actual nature of it
are your breaths heavy?
negationism hangs heavy
a noose for each your wrists leading
further into the dwelling are you scared of the dark
i will watch over you powerless
envision your service as a slamming of the gates dragging home
having to ring the doorbell,
there are asterisks where your eyes should have been
glazing over blurred out smelling strongly of incense,
you are heavy on the head dizzying weightlessness


offers the worst advice
measuring this light
I will soon be immense
I will soon be acheivable,
this is not the end.
there is nothing to do about
stolen containings
remembers summer,
remembers blame,
pressing each season
into rolling papers
tapping each month out
inscribing into folds of tissue
serenity,
the names of girls
full of regret
the smell of front gardens
marked shame returned
seeing it walk again
remembers accomplishment
order, inscribed routine
scared, for lack of a better word
of what will come.
tension stumbling towards substance
of this anticipating
forgetting everything,
forgetting every part of this,
I will soon be immeasurable,
I will soon be irrefutably
going unchallenged
my greatest naivety is trusting
is continuity
is leaving us to our own devices
there is no polarity
for lack of a better word, truth,
a poet could write around it could
suggest it,
an addict could interpret it
infer finality and conclude
by teaching yourself
you are, for lack of a better word,
ego searching meaning,
for lack of a better word,
drunk, there is no purity,
watching your eyes
you have arms and legs
and features never seen before
unbelievable, a must see,
and what will become of this
putting myself first claiming
I'm not now and I will not
succumb and what of it?
I will not profit, the net gain
of this leaving of this knowing
hardly registers the scale
of futile, pointless, listening to
writing down what will all be leaving,
naively, trusting we will continue
unconditionally,
acheive enlightenment and
justice and catharsis


nausea
I put on my glasses to find out what I'm missing.
birds don't fly alone.
jazz still streams through car speakers after 13 years.
her voice evokes nothing.
I hold my friends to find out what I'm missing.
I start my emails Hi Sir,
Kundera's conclusion that the singularity of our lives renders them meaningless is incomprehensible to me. I understand it in some roundabout way but I still feel that it makes every action
heavy and important.
like slick cotton.
like holding on.
it's probably the virtue ethicist in me holding out for something to strive for.
trying to find out what I'm missing.
I try to quiet my mind,
to be grateful for what is around me while asking what it all rests on.
I try to find out if other people have seen it.
I try to carry it with me.


inside diluted
unworth
proven by damp ringlets of linen,
supported by knuckles overpowered by white, blanched,
drooling into the warm palms of
martyrs.

the soft drench of bile into chastity,
salvation bleeding into the rough smudged shape of neglect
suggesting a refurbishment of
his fissures, his names, masculinity lack of knowing
traumas and meals and his self
bleeding into the defined conforming just enough structures of
his sense of self importance what he thinks he needs
if you can grasp such a thing.

he murmurs and stutters through his justifications,
that pervert’s moral high ground,
I’d rather you assume such a thing
than have your eyes stare boorish buggishly into the camera
pupils cut out mouth working involuntarily,
tongue whirring against the roof of my mouth
spit soaking to soothe the itch of sexuality,
attain enough recognition and connection
to stop deferring to the space between my thighs
and regain control of himself


internal as ever
and you were this burnt out shell of a building,
like someone had pushed an apple corer right through the crown of your head,
tried to peel the reddened skin of your arms,
and you had let it wash over you.
i need to need things again,
i need agape to bury in my stomach and stem out of
my hands, my scars, my heart,
i need to stop letting it wash over me.


container of leftovers- last night’s feast
the sea has been washed out
the tide ushered away
by gulls screaming obscenities
predators brandishing their wings
branding their beaks
half price half battery
half to death.

i am dragging myself slowly by the hand
through the mud
convincing shaken shell shocked
deer in headlights disciples
this way,
this way,
this way!

toes catch in the netting
some hammock of a safety net
we slid under the sea
to catch the terrorist spider
we are under the cup
i am standing on newspaper
papier mâché standard guillotine directed the headlines.

i’ve lost myself on black and white
on language i’m betrayed by
cat tore open the bag forced its way onto the front page
i cry and impose laws
intrude on my host
my mother ship
guillotined just to brag the bodies.

i cover my eyes grab myself by the hair
forcing myself through the foreshadow of the tsunami
raising my brass lamp
the waves haven’t parted they have gone away
tired of my wailing
i am tired of grieving quietly and pretending nothing happened
i want to be washed back home.