Month: June 2017

There’s no time.   alone. we don’t mind the black sky wide. i have an eye on a star not especially prominent. low in the South. it’s cold. the last night of the year & i might be high on lithium. i’m in 1979 &.. 10/9/ 8/7/6… I’m up. get hit again/ 5/4/ & I’m…

(If this was the last sheet of paper in the world, what would I write on it? Your name. Lie it flat in my drawer, which I lock.)   2 I’m high on lemonade, playing games as the men drink & become more tolerant. Long days:   at night, the warm fuzz, of ale, urinal…

pinned woken somewhere on that long run from midnight to the dawn pinned by the relentless adamant feeling of self narrow as a matchbox coffin pinned by that feeling squirming on it butterfly nailed against the cold-hearted wall of night finding yourself to be self and not a damned thing to do about it may…

The road rises and falls on its way to a white church in a field of green. It is an old church with a belfry and no bell, and the slender windows reach to the sky. There are two great doors, heavenly blue, the paint falling, and locked. The secrets are kept. I cannot feel…

…therefore our milk skins bruised at dawn torn betwixt.. crucifix. hammer. nail. caught on/tore yr clear- skin nylon. thighs ruined.   evident, the philosophical undercurrent, the smooth- flowing narrative.   also, tension: the linear arrangement of days; their despoilation.

for you open scissor blades on the white page,   symbol                                                                                             x omen – say, a pair of horns                                                                                 Ỵ     or thorns from the garden to wear like garlanded kings.

Towers hang the air like the Titans at Cocytus, black at sundown, the dark blue sky and like when there’s this guy high on the deck gabbling prayer. Her dark eyes. Fingers, silhouettes stretched miles, other worlds here as you sleep. In the sea deep, crevice, desert. Rocks. I’m hollowed by the drip-drip of decades,…

My mother’s lilac gown lies on a shelf in my wardrobe neatly folded, defunct.   I tried it on once – it was tight, too short at the arms. I had a thick jumper on, which made it worse. I never made her laugh. I stuck corks in her tight curls, chicken bones in her…

Stand still. The children are calling, Muffled voices In these dark rooms; Near the  broken shelf, By the copper’s bulk, Scratching on slates. This room was a school. It says so, in chalk: Boys. Girls. And this – well – It is locked. The shadows lean in, Ragged curtains shake. There is grime on the…