November 2019
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Sometimes I have little to say / crossing the stream that runs / behind the backs of houses / I watch my self in the puddle / a coin-mirror lying belly-up / a glimpse of what could be / Nowadays my eyes are itchy / and I go into town goal-less / with my pockets
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a spine like a keyboard / the blacks intersecting the whites / ridges like a bookshelf / tracing the line with a careful finger / I am brought backto road trips in Iceland / the un-certainty of an off-road track / our wheels caked deep in snow / the burst tyre / our car a
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justice sits in the tennis court / tennis a sport of reciprocity /returning a salvo barrage / the broad side of a warship /sent into a murky water / one drop of ink dilutes / the hazy milk of memory / a fog lifted to be worn / cloaked in the night I leave /
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I am at the weigh-in / the men carry my pound of flesh / hungjury sitting in the rafters / eyeslike pigeons / their faces like pigeons / the going rate for excision is silence / the cost of living is silence / the last hot-blooded rebel had his arms pulled off at the hinges
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Having given out the last of hispocket change to the homeless man sitting outside his house, with his cardboard manifesto in hand, thelung came home empty-handed. The lights were off, because the eyes did not pay the utilities, havingresigned themselves from their jobs at the publishing house. Now they walk about takingin the dark like
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Like all love, it happened at an inconvenient time / doubling over in the grass /the whirr of a lawnmower still running rounds downthe cul-de-sac / lying there with his half-trimmed lawn /I wonder what he must haveseen / His nostrils, filled withthe afterglow of shorn blades / His breath coming in and outlike his
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My head, tumbling downa stair; a crick in the neck,the world as a rotoscope, step upon step upon step;my head, a last minute addition to a bowling alley;my teeth, pins waiting to be put into flesh, and my tongue waxed and polished;my body is a body of water,in the same way a lake is an
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I can fit all my faces into the headspace of a book.In the book, between every line a confession waits.Waiting for confession, I sit in the pews of the church.Spewing sermon and half-baked prayer I am mindful. Mind full of ideas half-baked in the sun like roadkill.Killers or their supporters all about the morning roads.Mourning,
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your shape in the dark / a swan’s neck craning about the moon / O loveyour voice / a whisper inan empty room / a fingeron the spine / delicateas if to cut / catch in the throat / chamber loaded and private / in my head it is so plush / so quiet but
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Charting a path, navigating the dense straggly-vined rainforest, past lives wehave left to hang and dry, look at how brown their bodies are, these woven hemp-rope effigies, these forgotten memories and elegies; with a machetein hand I cut through the past time line by line. Forging a clearing in the middle of nowhere we send
ugly stage 