Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, September 29, 2007


The trolleys move as thunder;
dirty rubber on the glaze
makes lines of ants.

A white slip falls
like a slapped child;
tut, tut, pick it up.

A curtain hisses into life.
I am surrounded.

I shall die inside my cupped hands.
No-one need know;
I will prop my muscles carefully
with sticks of smiles.

Friday, September 7, 2007


I am planting weeds
instead of flowers
to tip the balance on
each tiring hour you seeded,
cultivating me.

My eyes are raw
my fists are cut through
and snails commune like rubies
in my mouth
as I govern this windy garden
of rancour and bile.

The swinging lamp is smashed
upon the littered path.
I edge my elbows past
the hedge you grew.
I plaster up the holes
where once you drew
plasma from my smacked vein.

The hounds are in, the time has flown,
the cats are calmly drinking you.
I am in the night, my shoulders up
my legs askew.

I plant nettle.
I turn my spade.
I screw the screw.

The Echo

Remember this sequence, remember
this pattern.
Crush - conversation.
Running, flashing,
bird-of-you alighting
in the light of the iris.
We come to speak,
leave to heaving
- mouths agog.


Aye. Aye. We connect at knee and hip.
Stars fall as heavy apricots from
the torn string parcel of the sky.
All upon us, weighted fruit and
I can barely swallow this.
Resin's running through us,
the mat of river reed's our bed.
The stones are straining patterns
on my breasts and thighs.

When you're weeping, own this
Roll it over, under your thick
lost tongue.
For when I'm gone
you'll be alone, so I insist
you think of sticky palms on backs
(not pallid lands of washed flesh
or funeral masks).
Think of murmuring laughing,
of the cold heft of rain
thudding the window
of our skulls.
Stars scarring our skin.