Monthly Archives: February 2011

tm

There’s a woman across the border
makes me forget
my right hand from my left –

to be close, an aiming struck
with dreams of railway sleepers.


hothouse IV

You talked of gloved hands: you claim to not
see where the climbers stretch to, only spaces:
the leaves are powder. Distance swells, unorganic

beating through the lead-lined frames: afterthoughts
assume your shape: you remember that before we burst
husks: there was a minute when we were not


hothouse III

Given the chance
residue will fall upwards, hitting
heavy undersides, tendril twisting
occurs, just

planned – all rise, yeast of eden
something like a parasite in these
updrafts. Sweat rises. Beads

form, direction, form
direction is given (make no mistake)
Girls

raise their heads, face blown glass.
Occasions, sweat sticks
perspiration will drop and
these guidelines refuse removal –
bamboo is more than

structure spreading legs
sprayed deeper

green – scaffolds hold bits in
parts are kept pushed out.
Trying to look for roots this high
in this constant fuming

a fruitless exercise.
Trying to look, also.


transglobal

Feet scratched by spaces
between railway sleepers
flint follows clinker
splintered wood, age on empire
north and west, follow fallow
land and water-log sips
mangrove soon parches
each border, arid is all – then
seas are split wide open
ice is booming on the hull.
Something screams beneath
ankles clutching inner thighs
dented by rivets
upstairs, more wood crumbles
miles are thrown behind and
coughed out back. Straights are crossed

Still, she navigates as she did
home is
lit by neon tubes
and still
signs lurch overhead
saying still
the same
you want more,
you are not enough
still


this day, a short

winter blows closing, rinsed clean. An act
of suspicious absolution, a type of cut
but it almost happened already to us.


hothouse II

wraught iron, corridor
this swollen, lead crystal-
-ised sweat rises and
congregates in fields

obese lungs, panting.
A stamen paralyzes my

hacking of mists, some-
where, damp leaves
a shattering.


hothouse

The heat in here stays constant netted

kept unmoving billowed weighed down

down everything all the leaves to

lethargic rubbered limbs and I can only

ascertain who comes or goes by read-

-ing the peaks in this dim but varied

show of slanting white-wet lights


Pb/Fe – poem

Slag my hands
scraping down your brow, and allow
me to hoist you
come out, crackling
from refinery

enter roughly, fin-like –
many fists in a small barrel.
Your name: silver foil
corrugates on my gums


land

I ground myself directly in the middle, half way brittle legs and stone

it causes girls on the coast to convince themselves they love me

we attempted to cast our footprints again, but to no avail –

they were swallowed all too quickly

at some point, a map was coughed into existence

and the grasses then knew when to stop, and

how to become a tower


day

January began slipping through her fingers, weeks ago. Soon there was

nothing left of it – they said „it is happen-

-ing to me too” they said „don’t even panic” but

for one; the days are not lengthening, not

springing up sooner. For her; quite

the opposite occurs


Rope Trick, part III

Daniel collapsed to the straw-strewn floor, and rolled onto his back. The first breath pulled into his wracked and self engraved chest a fistful of scorching air, the second contracted the meat beneath his spidery broken veins with the acridity of feline piss, a heavy, jungle scent, all sharpened with ammonia and basic human instinct. Collective inherited memories scrambled to the forefront of his addled mind, screaming reflexes into his legs to get up, and run. ’Big cat, here!’ they seemed to say. ’Get away!’, they shouted, a million tiny voices, a hormonal klaxon kicking him behind the knees. Olfactory terror was known for producing visions, the flood of adrenaline was a potent trigger of revelation. Everyone knew that, and here he was; Daniel in the lion’s den, throwing himself down hard. A bruise was blossoming under his clavicle. ‘This is good’, he thought to himself.

Still, he did not hear The Voice.

The lion was a ragged old thing, submissive, tired, all swollen ankles and eyes crusted with lethargy and conjunctivitus. It wasn’t cheap, even for the fifteen minutes of squalid genuflection it was hired for. With one pleaful look at the whip-marked, pocked old cat, it became clear that this method wasn’t working, either, and Daniel walked wearily to the rope ladder which hung down into the pit. He cosidered getting a stagehand to throw him in once more, but lowered his eyes and climbed past Busburosa, the obese circus master with his cloud of tobacco smoke and lazy lechery. Daniel didn’t even raise his head, as he walked towards the door. He didn’t notice the boys who watched him from the sawdust, their hair littered with petals and plastered onto shining faces with bright, clear water. But then, he wouldn’t have. He was seeking the presence of a god, he was grasping for a gift.