As the room explodes ~ Ren

Your head is beside mine in the avalanche
and i have no way of turning our limbs
unless we embrace
and engulf the room

As our days have become combatant and
our dives down together free
our bones in the myriad lakes
and random sighs

Where the rocks of no more
or the scented showers of your back
when it’s a bad day

Our limbs reach out and ricochet
reach out and dive throughout all seasons and
know that the weather was afraid
of us.

The meta vote ~ Ren

As every politician says: follow my shadow!
not the future of my black on flesh decay
that has less charm than a firefly burped by the cosmos
into a nice tight morning suit
that cannot hold the hologram,

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.

Monday’s way ~ Ren

My old country swears and disappears
as the lips that bugger the sails
have no voice beyond the shadows of my sweat
where it passes down the limb
and rain
unlike water
more like showers
more like chimera
within rocks
and day.

Beyond haven ~ Ren

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 gravity of the chimera ~ Ren

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
and less.

The songs of master stranglers ~ Ren

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
old corridors,

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
infinite ways.

The heart of a solar dance ~ Ren

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 god why ~ Amy

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
should scream
into a pillow.

Future ~ Bob Kesh

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

like indecision.

If I wasn’t so crippled

I would hold her like my future,

rested against my chest,

hoping she would grow.

First Love

First love feels like


in your first-year dorm room

is floating.


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

coming down

from above

your desk.



as you stand next to the person

in the rain outside,

the breeze can

and does

blow you


their arms.