Monthly Archives: November 2011


from here behind these tattered sails

salt crystal forming on my lashes

I find it nothing but astonishing

that the moon still has a pull

to wake in

The anxious are rapt in chariot joints, buried

half formed in earth and bound in snapped bone

„we are sincere”, they said, „this is the real thing”


besides, I am the miner and you dig deep

my hair scrapes along your walls


there are struts holding up the stones

but one of us is not proclaiming the future is not riddled

with upwards hacking,

for one of us, the spear can’t help but pause the wheels

mit art

we are not actors anymore, we have no need

for hiding the shapes our birthing took us –

my ribcage juts today and lacings snap and


you built a framework on my skin – look

closely and your face is there, just between

the sketches that were my grounding but


photographs reveal my worst, a sepia flooding

the china slates of yesterday. You litter my floor

and a love hits me like a train – I am the sleepers


you are the rail


I lie on hollows of your shape, toying

your name exists and spills all secrets

a looping, a whorl and I’m still here


Today brings us back a set of slating skies

grappling for my sight amidst the taste of last year

at moments like this my mind makes me answer

a realisation: that you were pushed and didn’t slip –

we see the air keeps heading south and soon

another pair will find it too. I first notice blood on your tongue.


We’ve grown in split houses

and accustomed ourselves to corsetry that

teaches you and I how to run fingertips over

ribcages and lacings: how to grip a spoon so

some awful table-guest never realises

why we clasp our faces hidden: again, I see.


An end follows my voice: it appears you
balance thought with consequence and
space fills space between connections:

you sang another moment: you wish
to subtract yourself from photographs
until gaps are left in landscapes:

yet still years stream from tributaries:
an image left: there was a month before
when our lips throbbed and secrets came:


We are actors in this state – hiding our hands, changes

in our birthform, blame the numbers:

for my shape and breaking bones are a lot like yours and


mine were scaffolded, incised and exhumed – they

cast me up and split me like fruit, I know

if you’d have seen it, we would have talked awhile


for lying on my chest and eating hair results in

careful studies of ankles, specially shaped flooring

in which we haunt a stage, pouring into days

the other

She sang of turbaned and bearded men: it was said
she was good with words, leaving space:
to crumble old tales. Anew, an expansion, unorganic

tearing away through windscreens: girls
squatting outside the cinemas: assuming shapes of folded paper
and seed-pod splitting: there were moments

cracks appear, applied reds: afterthoughts to
corset us in: we remember that before we lost
surface: there were moments when we were not