The romance is all in your head, you know,

when you fetishize the rose

or the cherry shade of your lover’s cheek

or her little button nose.

Your morning is in your head, you know,

with cold prescription rows,

your coffee mug holds no memory

nor the incense your close one chose.

All day is in your head, you know,

the people are of your design -

but squeeze that hell out again,

don’t wait for a higher sign

that you’re not mad, because you are,

living a fantasy not fine

but rough and disgusting, vile and nasty,

O’, who would construct this confine?

this bloody masterpiece, this godly fuckup,

this achingly rich bottle of wine - 

You would, by step and fall,

you’re the one to blame.

So if you’d ask to me if you’re mad,

my dear, you give it a name.

12april2012

Caught in this loop of clocks

I twist in circles looking for the right door

the flimsy locks

that keep my daddy out

are like air,

slap my pocket for reassurance,

feel the fat slap back

and want to burn it for warmth

on a rusty bike rack

having my first cig of the morning

///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\x///\\

A little twist of steel and

click goes the sanctuary and

thrash on the bed for a sleeping cycle

though perception of time makes it

more than one or two, it seemed

the room is still a blur

from lack of perception and

overstimulation and

showing up late seems less possible

than falling through

the bed

12april2012

The buzz falls from my head to my belly like it always does. The ones with the pop and the ones with the rawk like it’s 1979, the subversives and the dabblers and the ones who just want to get fucked up - and me, that little pretentious freak who tries so hard to prove she’s not brilliant - I just wanna be touched, okay? Drug dealers like tumblr follows - do you have that hookup, the one that makes me feel human again?

11april2012

These trees quietly listen

and inhale the tobacco smoke

from those who need

courtyard light and twittering,

ambiance by the ounce, half, and eight.

I wish I would die so

I wouldn’t have to decide

what song to play at my funeral.

I want the sound of birds

and the junkie’s moan

and a single flower- not in my honour,

but as reparation for all of my damage.

Sweet as honey bunny bleed,

see dark eyes and it’s a dream,

you’re a dream and I’m a crack

in a white wall for children to pick,

I would’ve moved but I felt sick

and sicker, then yawns of bouncing belles -

our noisiest decoration -

so pour your wine to a closer soul,

dipping fingers in her bowl,

tracing oily paths and peaks;

don’t be afraid to stare in the mirror,

or to be angry - such is life.

11april2012

‘Snap’ goes your soul

tumbling down from the tree

of leisure, and could be

magic, the way that her fingers

entwined and constrained, like

the tiger’s claws clench and tear-

but don’t worry, you’re *my* fetish, because

Marx and Engels wouldn’t have been heard if they

had tits

A maudlin sea, for Josephine,

is not enough by half;

so pour your tea to spirits unseen

on that great woman’s behalf.

A sitting tree, for Josephine,

is better than rich men’s satin;

so follow the bee, the fawn, the swine,

for a kind bosom society flattened.

8april2012

The tip of a finger to petal, again,

knife to the stem,

grandmother’s sin,

twice and thrice and slip once more,

Saved for time when candles dim,

back is thrown against the door.

Time is my heart,

rarely to start,

stopping only for our kiss.

-26Mar2012

Elizabeth, dearest

a Saturday apart, yeah

but a million miles away

and a billion little droplets of water

not to mention the air

which multiplies only to spite me

like so many other

unshakeable ‘facts’

of nature

but I know their true design

but a spirit, lack of refine

and hearts, like blue roses,

serve only to compare

to that feeling before the kiss

of a throat long parched

tasting bitter water at long last

forgetting the past

and imagining that all that time alone

was but a dream, and now

you’ve discovered your lover was merely

stepping out of bed

to bring you wine and a scone

and is now again around your waist

offering her wrist for your lips to taste

-10mar2012

The brown wash of Autumn hides

the Winter as it coldly bides,

frank and simple and moist and warm,

wearing the forest to a vow of silence

While leaves crunch running from the growing swarm

of tiny buzzing fleeting things,

O, let us find the honey she brings

in the wooden carriage while we camp our tents,

for those who yearn for solitude

find redemption in rot and decrepitude

like a bird pulls apart her home to make home,

they find the glowing hollow spaces

and amid the froths of peat and loam

they drop their knapsacks on the ground

and articulate themselves without a sound,

long parted from the prying faces.

Books of colours like books of sex positions,

directing perception of pleasure and visions,

putting feelings to thought and words to feelings,

dissecting the process of wild lovers’ peelings

and sunsets and wine and plums from the vine,

stretched out over concrete steel promenade

drapes brushing over textured facade,

somewhat to the right and somewhat to the left,

flying for a week leaving own bereft,

least of those being that the bed is still made

28feb2012