And so we stayed true
to that hormone laced
and vowed to love
these lurid tunes
along the vast slouching wires
of our opposing
church pyre landscapes,
manifest as false adoration,
despite the distance, our words
iii. Chemically enhanced to age
And we loved afar,
not by sky fetched satellites
or whimsical billboard technologies
nor a digital duality soon to cease
stripped of its glue backing,
but with perfumed letters,
pressed fresh with star tittles,
and marked with the flourish
a fading and always false
trite tomes written
upon art-house parchments
chemically enhanced to age.
the stoney steps of beating blood
from the Danish clouds
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgesThe Farmers Son3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the smoke from some great unseen inferno,
the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to us
in low groans,
of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,
and there was flickering light from a candle,
and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspond
in some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythm
and I believed that part,
and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey day
and that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythms
or any question a farmers son could ever mutter,
and the wind slowed to a stillness
and the rain moved in and our voices gave way
to what my Father would call The Lords Music,
the pitter-patter of water
on the dry and flaking earth.
HotelRoom 17Hotel4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Lying bent on his back,
Tethered loosely to life; red-rash arm,
thinks of his mom sometimes.
Tethered hard to the bed, rubber cord,
arms like maps, veins thick as rivers,
3 years since rain, the drought has cracked the ceiling.
Ticker tape at 45 degrees,
a blue/white prize winning sashay
for the door frame,
Crime Scene Crime Scene Crime Scene
encompassed the chalk body,
that sleeps flat and silent by the entrance, the doorbell
is broken - gunshot holes in the wall like spat tea leaves.
Her daughter, Eleven now can't see her homework,
earring's like her two blown lightglobes,
she shares the space, shitty, hazy single room, split beds,
nylon orange quilts. Identical. Mom's heart surges after nightshifts,
hand shakes that she is safe, extra gold lock on the door
at dawn, tired - exhausted,
Rusted apples in the kitchen.
He once owned a house, Eve
Los AngelesSo crowded is the night. So crowded.Los Angeles4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this oak wood bar,
where La Cienega meets Sunset Boulevard,
a cocktail of ice and blue, a neon view
flood-lit lights and breaking hearts.
There's something about old friends,
she smiles at me, I raise a glass,
A suprising shift of heart
has come upon me,
inside our time apart.
I thought it was enough growing up,
that all of Neil Young's Lyrics
were known to both of us,
but tonight I feel my vagrant heart,
has navigated something new.
We both smoked, though she still smelt
of summer flowers and fresh cherries,
and of old times we laughed
unforced and true,
and she touched my arm and sprung
goose-bumps from my skin,
like a magician springs a rabbit.
And I scanned our history and wondered
if I always loved her, or was this night the first?
I had never noticed so much of her,
and at this moment wondered why.
However it turns out my chance
was missed before I knew,
as she showed me her glistening diamond r
On Trying to Avoid You at a Weddingblack-tie-busy ballroomOn Trying to Avoid You at a Wedding3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of martini glass circles,
held just at the level
of cheap lipstick reverb,
vodka and echoes
of sparrow pitched chatter.
i have befriended myself
in the corner
walled inside a minor soliloquy.
and now its later
and its another
its an image
of diamond forevers,
of DNA rivers, of domesticated kettles,
and any barren gap, or niche or void
in the vault behind my eyes tonight
you will fill by default,
you will occupy all vacancies by instinct.
i am 16 kinds of diseased,
and you are
the symptom of everything.
movingjust before the start of springmoving3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
whilst blue moonlight washed
my slightly sacred thing
the left side of my brain
i moved out overnight
in a dream of sharp lines
as mad naked women
danced to thick phallic symbols
all covered in vine
i packed up in the darkness
(but for the blue)
placed my logic in a square trunk
my fears and my algebra too
left the past with the future
left all science with facts
and found history quite light
for all that it lacks
i left for the street sweeper
perfect plato in boxes
left him all for a vision
of green spotted foxes
BreathlessBreathless,Breathless3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
meek as milk,
her sex sits
at the man
in the blue flannel suit.
His hat watches her
to go shopping
or shooting birds
off the chimneys.
Why does nothing taste good,
and why do friends
He ponders her earrings
and pours coffee
into the sink,
thinking his wife
should know better by now
and dreaming of
how a woman's bare back
like a camera.
Sorry, LoveI smell of the oceanSorry, Love4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and miss being high,
and I cannot say for sure
that I love you any more.
Somewhere alone the way,
I think my feelings shifted
towards new horizons
and new names,
new hands, like yours,
I have dreamt of every boy but you
for the past nine nights,
and I have played chess
with the devil for a few
grains of truth.
The glass orb of my imaginings
has shattered, my mind has expanded
whole universes wide,
my heart has left your hands
in a flurry of wings
and smooth beach stones.
And I am in agony
as I write this.
I am bleeding through the pen,
gouging out my own flesh
with each letter,
but I do not know you anymore,
I know you too well.
It aches to say it,
but I woke this morning
I no longer need you.
I am stretching my hand out,
palm open for anyone to grasp,
waiting some unknown lover
to seduce me from you.
Though it kills me to do it,
I am euthanizing us;
sliding knives across the wrist
of "you and I,"
all in the name of the greater
they are but clichesthey are but clichésthey are but cliches6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
we are two of a kind,
halves of a whole,
faces in a crowd.
if we are coffee and cream,
let me be the coffee
since i am darker
and have a passion for café au lait and espresso.
let us not be two socks,
since mismatched things are more beautiful anyways
and socks are to be worn on feet and thrown in corners.
i dont want to be the glove to your hand,
though ill gladly cover you.
id rather have your hand in mine
lace my fingers between yours and hold your warmth.
lets run away,
and together we can both be the lust
sleeping under the stars in the back of your car
all tangled up in each other.
are we pretentious enough to think ourselves as celestial
as the sun and moon?
no, we are merely stars if were lucky enough to grace the sky.
ill be the red balloon,
and youll be the string,
tying me down to the ground
i dont want to be the words to your song,
but if i could sin
Welcome backIn this living room I've brokenWelcome back2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
two mugs, one plate,
four wine glasses,
and on more than one occasion,
my own heart.
I guess that's why I fight you on purpose;
I can't take any more small talk,
more talk about travel, or big plans
for the future,
it just shines too much light
on the present
that we clearly aren't living.
* * *
When I reach for my cup of hot cider, I spill
just a bit on my hands
I see you startle
and wince for me,
but when it burns
I'm not surprised.
It's one of those crisp, fall evenings
and the windows are open,
and it's cold enough for a sweater,
but I'm hoping
you'll try to warm me yourself.
* * *
I can't take it anymore,
because the thought of others laughing,
fighting, loving, fucking
has never made me feel more dead,
simply because I can't stand
I stand naked before you
to shut your mouth,
and I rip the control
from your grasp.
and though I'm nearly invisible,
I'm just present enough
to force you to fee
Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,Birth of Poetry4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.
Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.
So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:
(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)
death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.
Notes on nightCupped hands could holdNotes on night5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a moth's night,
a moon waning somewhere between
middle and index.
the cuddling craters,
would become the flight.
Wild RiversGrandfather:Wild Rivers3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Boy, come read wild rivers with me,
learn more than those books can teach.
Boy was young.
Grandfather had skin
of the baobab tree
and knew of muddy oyster banks
where fleshy pearl houses hid
how best to clutch and gouge them
knew patterns of mullet mouths
when they kissed the surface
of deep pools
how they differed from the shimmering chaos
that were whiting schools
down by the rivers flaky delta.
Before sun or at dusk
among wisps of woven water
they would venture
dodging mosquito swarms by feel of air
against humid skin
and in darkness boy learnt
how the rivers midnight can show
and how fisherman's net can harvest
with a single expert throw
or what ochre rings around the moon revealed
of the coming morning tide.
Boats chugging engine
letters missing from its faded plastic case
petrol fumes waft across sullen air
when they stalled and drifted with soft momentum
amongst the mangrove
roseyou mime a roserose4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
with hands I can't see
I can see
stomachedyou blush and bruisestomached4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with sidewalks, stones,
the quiet doorways in your thighs
and the weight of your purple
tongue against mine
(a carnival of teeth)
if you swallowed the moon
with your agate jaws,
you could not be more nacreous
kelseyhas no one else ever usedkelsey4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
their fingers as hooks against their scalp
when did i become we?
it's like i always thought those bears
from the hallmark store
and they hold radish-colored hearts that say
in sans serif,
i love you BEARY much
i always felt they were mundane and loveless
i think i would buy her a thousand of them now
and the only reason i don't is because
i love her more than that
it's like i was always actively looking for her
and then she's a movie cliche
she pressed the curve of her breast to the arch of my back
her palms covered my eyes and she said,
people will find light in dark places
except that they don't
those people have never seen the starless bruises of their mother's face
or the blackened leather emptiness of their nose pressed against the carpet
please no stop don't please
i want to hold her face to the sun and tell her,
it's morning, please come sit with me
and we'll do things that normal people do
i see her sometimes when my spoon c
Under DreadThe winter, the whole winterUnder Dread3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost remember better
than living yesterday, a dream
of gooey loss, a taffy sorrow that loomed,
loomed, loomed, you see? It was so real,
I just had it.
city drowned cleanbirds fly bluer before a hurricane,city drowned clean4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
wings sharper, the bricks neater.
one train is always longer than the
other. i cried about it. the saturated
city, droplets of colour caught on
tape & rewinding, cups me in its
palms, i am a bug on its window,
imagining all of it underwater &
people clapping in a silent film,
the last dying bubbles curtsying
on their lips, for their marble town
the white skied & terrible atlantis.
Season of the WitchSomething slow and arcaneSeason of the Witch4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
culls this fire
and flares like ghosts.
It stirs your soul,
splits the iris of your eye,
a spectrum to haunt October -
ruddy gold and rust,
followed by a dark so smooth,
it smothers embers
and roosts upon the river,
too deep to drown you.
And in the depths -
muddles silt and pine,
witches' brew of
tar voiced stones
and hold you down
Mad ManI think I lost usMad Man4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in a glass of scotch -
going down like
every mad man
I ever envied.
Why did I believe
your lips tasted
sweet and heathen
like the heather
I laid you in
that last night
I came home?
I had a thing
for damaged women,
and you could drink
your mother's last words
AlterAllow me just this:Alter4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I fell into a deep forest. My femur
put forth roots. I did not say: oh Lord,
take me from here
like Rebekah, this is another
My mouth remained resolutely
closed. The moss
grew over me,
Oh Lord, I am scared.
Mother is reading, brows
at half mast. In the kitchen,
Father organizes sardines
on crackers. Home means
this soft quietude.
Five thousand six hundred
miles away, I am watching a donkey.
It stumbles on three legs; the fourth
is loosely curled, like a child's fist.
There are wild dogs in the fields beyond,
waiting. I am a dog, waiting.
The wind settles down
into the moor. The purple heather
lowers its head, then forgets.
It seems natural, as if the wind
was always there.
My neck bent,
I am lost in this.
Wandering, my hands
abandon their shape.
The BluesIn the tattered corner boothThe Blues5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he tells me Jazz music
is just The Blues on Prozac,
and his brown suit is already his coffin,
and the white smoke of the club
snakes upwards towards the lights
like a spirit fleeing,
and quietly, underneath this aura, I sit and listen
and my red wine is
something like a lost metaphor I can't find a handle
to place a word around
and through the blackness between us both
he tells me
the story of his Pa, dying so young
and then another of his own life
on the railways of the humid South
where he found his one blessed love
and how he never got the chance
to truly hold her
or time the rhythm of her heart
because the war took him
too far West, far too young,
He drops his whiskered chin,
and his voice breaks a little
between the drones of the saxophone
as he recalls her soft auburn hair,
and the long curve of her neckline
and how her perfect fingers
turned the pages of the psalms on Sunday mornings,
and then he says,
And I will arisei.And I will arise5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The staccato stuttering of your half-dead heart
crescendos through the funeral morgue,
sweeping up in D minor and falling through A with notes
chiming in shades of cello brown
before it flops through the air, nose-dives
like a plunging chord and plummets
into an open casket with the grace
of a quivering fermata.
This place is built on hallowed ground, a sanctuary;
the specters that comb these halls birth their sorrow
upon the maple pews, stomachs swelling with freshly-nursed grief
like starving gutter rats that clutter empty sepulchers.
And God is just another hanged man
dangling from the gallows that perch within their eyes,
you will find no absolution here.
Let them mark the walls with this: memento mori.
Let them brand the dead with this: resurget.
They will never forget.
When I have grown old and my bones are withered
and my shadow can no longer keep hidden the ghosts
I have buried within my hollow heart, perhaps
I will see you again as soft co
Hokkaido at NightThe Betula trees have ossified againHokkaido at Night4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
that the wild dogs may take to their bases
ring-barking them in the winter-night
all mad-eyed, saliva-jawed and rabid.
The mottled coats of the hounds
shimmer under a waning moon
that has petrified
in the black-snowed feckless sky
a distant, wood-grained-stony bowl of ginko, sluiced
Saru River is whispering her stories
in Epicurean logic
or Pagan shorthand,
tales of being a widow
all her particles run diligent and singular
and the riverbed
runs short of breath
flowing low on jutted memories,
above, in the wash, nocturnal catfish are seized
in spasms of pure being
spotted and blue and flippant,
void of all reason in the wetness, lithe
and hollow, alone and surrounded.
Man as NovelHe is your unfinished novel.Man as Novel3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
chapter one -
a casino in Biarritz,
your mother's sapphire locket,
a beacon below your smile;
fingers cooly fanning out
a hand of baccarat
as he swears he would give up
his daughter's soul
sipping Kir Royale
at a garden party in Mayfair,
a spare husband or two
wondering how you would look
dressed only in his wife's pearls
or a strand of diamonds.
The eighth chapter,
a train in Morocco;
the wheels keeping time
with your stories.
You're Mata Hari
when a stranger invites you
to the dining car
to share a dry martini.
And the last twelve pages -
the streets of Curacao;
he steals oranges
from a merchant's boat
and calls you Katarina,
steel pan breaking down
the tourists smiles
and leaving the world