Like a vaulter crying for the mat.Recursively yawning on screens,Caught in the broadcast thatThose same surfaces were showing. Drill, drill, drill. Buffers, sand, sack. All that Footage of athletes curling,Belly-to-butt-tuck rolling.Live-streamed: no winding back.We tend towards collapse. Hit the buffers.Hit the sand.Hit the sack.
im tired of fighting vampiresthey put bitemarks on my heartnd i sleep with one eye openbut cant get my dreams to start it sucks starting at each shadowwolves lurk nd lunge at metheir fur clogs up the chambersof my lungs like a disease zombies i flinch and flee fromi outpace them they pursueso many goddamn …
The pile goes down;A bristling caterpillar;A hostile cocoon;A wooden wall of bric-a-brac: Fence panels and trees that fellLike bodies — wracked by storms, Cut by teeth, stacked by folk, My band, my people. Touching scars, our gloves became sopsFor sap and the memory of blossom…Swings… cooking apples… birds…Seasons of migration… All fuel for fire. I …
Where do I situate myselfIn this shining tableau of loveThat has Psyche sighting Eros,Her bedfellow?In that hinge of wing, the fleeing alulaFlinching from scouring specks that leaptFrom lantern with yawning well. What more may fall? I pause. Who may tell? I wonderIf the other half is yours:That revealing light;That stripping bare;The enlivening spark;My bloodied vessels;The …
There’ll come a yearwhen I do not seeants up on the mortar,or leaves gracing the trees.Not ripples. Not sprays of water. Goggles get torn off,leaving greasy smearsof folk, suspendedin wheezing chemical baths(my eyes). I’ll sit pool-side. Let old sun bake my back.As bricks give up their heat,I’ll give up mine(and other fine insect pleasures). And …
A ticking watchAt 20 feet. A bead of perfumeIn a honeymoon suite. An insect wing,Against your cheek. A candle,One town over.
Canary Wharf persuades youPeople can get busy in all directions,But the woman cramming bagels,Wedging salt beef between gherkins,She points directly – right through.
The news is of tunnels.Rabbits burrow through walls.In my bedroom, they recur like dreams.There are many, so many.Something’s wrong with their bellies.Whole warrens are swollen and sore.You’ve seen them on maps (nests clumped in dim corners),In photographs (eyes limned with debris,Plastered with ears and daring assistance).Their heart is a home is a hole.
YOU’RE A HUSTLER. ICON. CO-FOUNDER.MILTI-MILLIONAIRE IN ANY CURRENCY YOU CHOOSE.ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS: TEN EX YOUR LEADS.ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS: FEED A FUNNEL.ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS: TAKE THREE TIPS.FOUR HACKS.SEVEN MAGIC BULLETS.TO THE FACE. BOOK YOUR CONSULTATION TODAY.NO TIME LIKE THIS TIME RIGHT THIS SECOND.SKIM POSTS ABOUT POSITING.ABOUT LEAVING …
We were queuing in BerlinWhen Tom explained the senses:Waves, beams and vibrations,The pin-holes of the eyes. “That’s one interpretation.”In a courtyard, we were waiting,Entering gallery spaces,A nerve-bundle at a time. Then framed before Athena,We quailed before Athena,Thoughts stirring in the oils,Oils dancing though bone dry. Two to make a painting.One more again to tango.And all …
