Monthly Archives: October 2011


We are the lower plane
familiar with the spacing
and organised in our own refraction

we never stopped building on good intentions
and we nail ourselves in to soak the wonders – from
the pyramids to the red haired girls
we have eaten ourselves

we have never let ourselves forget
the anthropologias crack on our shoulderbones
the void is looking back at us
and we can write histories, now

we are oscillations of string

we climb scaffolds
dance in circles
we ignore our tongues
and stretch for common ground

we are a weight on lead sheets
we are inside the box, and we observe the box.

We are watchers, and we theorize on madness
Our half-life is now art

the filth

Outside the skin, a wishful splitting:
now, part of me longs for Charleville
where stocking’d legs would run
like grape juices trimming me down
with the scent of bread-crust and

I’d ruin them, bifurcating skin as all
the fruits of an early autumn. A hive
overflowing with swollen behinds, humming
with their useless barbs. I saw the queen
and slashed her hexagonal garters and

sideways eyes bear softer cloth as
we read again these truncated flowers,
lost in a litany of spectral issue
dripping from your chin. We look up,
and somewhere, a child.

and suddenly, we are old.

a weekend at sea

Three women lurch around the place and something
is said as one pushes through, bow-legged and bent as
a birthing canal, all antiseptic pink and washmint green
shuffling like a loon-at-sea in these plastic overshoes
crinkling and crackling on cold tiled floors, I sit by a bed
waiting for a moon to change

and despite knowing that none of this is really mine
some old dominion remains, perhaps from weekends spent
spending half-heard niceties with three generations all
holding the same chins, spilling sextants and china cups,
muttering on my otherness, merely thousands spurted across
a sea

and you sleep the sleep of the just put to sleep,
and I scan booming echoes of inertia, knocking a knock:
my skull on some guilty hull, riveted to the sides of
a short-stopped journey which cuts through ice that will
scream against the edges. I slice my topsail, wick myself,
waiting for a wind to do something