Monthly Archives: November 2009

ah, again.

Plug it in at the wall,

Christmas checking filigree…

One of them must be broken, surely.

Take it back to ’82

Tape-echo on your vox

“Return to sender”,

register those Gifts

sent in spite

This, worst of months for us.

For us.



A Daily Standard

For the second hand love of Columbine,

He split his head in two, they said.

The print left prints on fingertips

When hands that scratched for truth

(Inky, demised, fantastic blues)

Got stuck between page three and ‘done’.


For the hand-me-downs of the Empress,

He stamped his feet into his knees,

The snap-flashes almost ate him up

While he quivered on the kitchen tiles.

Nobody knows who called the men

But their coats came flooding through some door


Before you could even see the signs

That something was knocked askew;

Legs, scissor-fixes with retardant wire,

Eyes like an asbestos mask, they

Copied a million, front page stuff,

He was flogged in the street by a fool.

Miss Mercy! My Ears!

I was humming to myself again, old river songs were pointlessly meandering out of my cold gullet and making shapes in the air around my face. Muttering, I was. Muttering in tune, a stony melody accompanied by my footsteps, hammering out a steady crackling rhythm on the black, rain slicked cobbles on the south side of the river.

“la, lalala, feeling so… la, la…my baby stayed out all night long, da, dadadum” and on, and on.

November in Budapest was more or less like November in any other city I had walked through at night time; it was cold, damp, air that the trees lining the boulevardes were breathing with sickly, shivering palpatations. I was breathing it to. In went oxygen, out went carbon dioxide, which in turn was gulped down by the last clinging and flaccid cedar leaves before being transmutated into yet more oxygen, which was sucked into my tired lungs. Over and over, just me, and the night time, and the naked knuckles of wood and vegetable matter to my right. Admittedly, there were a few other people sharing this transaction, scattered alongside the wooden chairs, just behind the misplaced statue of Shakespeare. The combined huffing and panting of life, be it vegetable or animal, was deafening.

A wedding had occurred somewhere, sometime today. The final drunken staggerers did as their nature commanded, and staggered this way and that drunkenly, singing songs of their own as the Danube scratched her way noisily through this old town, the same way she had done since before the stag parties droned their way here in orange or green metal birds, since before the Magyar kicked out the Turks with their triumphant orchestrations, since before the Turks kicked out the Romans with raised ouds and the clashing of darbhouki drums. I could go on. The Danube is no older or louder than any other river, and no more or less important. Tiny whispers of music came and changed with the wind. I strained my ears which involuntarily mangled electropop beats with lapping waves, smashed together violas with the violent rumblings of the metro beneath my feet.

All is sound, until there is shape.



I write what I write to give small windows from different viewpoints from an imaginary tower somewhere. Here are some facts regarding what is here.

1. Just because something is dedicated to somebody (e.g a poem), it does not mean that it is ABOUT somebody.

2. The viewpoints/windows in my writing do not necessarily correlate to my own viewpoints on certain subject matters. As a writer, I withold the right and the ability to see through whoever’s eyes I damn well please.

3. None of my poems really ‘mean’ anything. I’m not interested in poetry with hidden messages, subtexts or solid meanings. I am interested in texture, musicality, the shape of words.

If I have offended anybody with my content (and apparantly, I have), I apologise profusely. It seems obvious to me that this was never my intention, and I am sorry if anybody has interpreted anything I have written incorrectly and thus has taken offense at their own synaptic, subconscious revelation.