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.


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.

Morning ~ Amy

Every movement above us, the ceiling
cracks in protest, we cuddle closer,
I smother giggles in the sticky sheets.

With morning bright behind the curtain,
I stand with just my skin to clothe
what the light seeks to outline.

Swiftly I slot into the sunlit bathroom,
fail to draw the blinds, but with veins
still flush with gin, I barely care.