Since even the dogs now laugh in circular barks
these raw drinks of rough sewage upon throats
that bring the stars into question, and dance
with each one beyond a new city made of flux
under the chatter of the mardi gras march,
Then beyond the piers where rants become suns
the heavens of bone become the grace we forget
whether we drank too much, worked too much, or
just forget that all animals are hybrid in the march;
unless a mating call shatters the grey.
As the phones die and all the greens
lead hybrid sycophants along the last chorus of chaotic slaps
on the arse of time
these grunting pigs
out of tune
continue to grunt
create the sun.
The magnetic drift that wraps your arse in shadow
moves beyond the fools and carnage
where the moon’s crucifix
blows my week of cheers and taps into the slaps
and waltzes of space
where they just matter less
The parlour gents and drunken femmes drink away
the contents of bodies blown along the broken down tongues of Balkan roads
into the mountains dwarfing all vehicles and immerse the bright
undying scars in sun-bled valleys
healing the force of wars in small offices
Unless the heads of myriad jokers scream
beyond the logic of faith and blood
and smile inside the microscopic din of civil service banquets
knowing only the miasma of hangovers inside
Then us drunks laugh at the sober drunks
these wild incapable dunes that cannot
spring or re-arrange the network
since there is only a twitch in the waltz
that rises none-the-less and grows
The arena of a million drunks flows with howls
and among the silence we celebrate ourselves
knocking one world into another with delicacy
delight, and calming our feuds by the eclipsing
yen, roubles, and pounds of well-trained arson!
I drink with the motor sounds and chimes that smack nets
in the grunts and hoopla of animals all weaving and
connecting a day-off in the sun, away from the nonsense
where among the sense of delirium our conversation
is the last burnt echo we know, and manage to create.
Why am I wound so tight
like this wrung-out dishcloth?
The ceiling creaks and my spine tightens
I keep thinking it’s you
pulling up outside
but it’s just
snow succumbing to the slope of the roof.
I can’t seem to do the job I’m paid
half your salary to do, but that’s ok
because I find comfort in the exact
shop-bought shape of folded shirts
as I place them gently in neat piles
on those shelves your ex labelled.
Today the sun makes the snow look soft
and inviting, like a lover’s warm bed.
I lie on yours in the brightness, open
the window, and a Viking-sized fly buzzes in.
At least now I have company.
I’m wearing the crazy cartoon shirt that
everyone loves, only now I wear it
with pyjamas and it seems kind of sad.
There’s a piece that says “why god why”,
and this now appears
as what someone
who feels like me
into a pillow.
That’s some strong shit, I thought
as my lungs pulled
like a vice removed from my throat,
I sat there dazed and lethargic
wondering if I could ever escape,
staring as a baby cried
and her father watched T.V.
Holding her with one hand so
she didn’t roll over like a potato,
smoke weighted on my bones
If I wasn’t so crippled
I would hold her like my future,
rested against my chest,
hoping she would grow.
First love feels like
in your first-year dorm room
The little Buddha statue you brought
from your parents’ house
levitating on the desk.
The same kind of desk
everyone on this floor has,
but this one is yours.
Everything’s gold and
in the light
as you stand next to the person
in the rain outside,
the breeze can
It’s hard to know
the best thing to do with life.
Maybe you end up doing
the best thing for you,
the thing that keeps you going.
It makes me want
to order dessert
at this restaurant.