april 2020





...so, not only is laughter inconclusive

so also is kissing another’s breath


nothing it seems, not even god, is final

there is always more and more


a sickness continually falling

and falling into our eyes


and staring up at these purple citadels

these cosmic monoliths, is no better


because it is really like staring at pain itself

at the mockery of pretty colours


the unfinished face of the world

lips that cannot be touched


smiles that can not be understood

this torment of never knowing


and yet children still fall from the sky

and are swallowed by the earth


only later do their tiny fingers appear

wriggling up through the floorboards


until, once complete, they climb out

with smiles ready to attack 


every god that has left the world unfinished...






...these shadows of life’s sweet-nothings

the stains in the sheets


just how close in the night

did the tides rise


and how many sonnets

were left soiled in the bedding


this oceanic copulation

which has always promised the truth


and yet has always shied away

from the meaning of the truth


the blossoms of yesteryear

the scripture in the sands


the leaves that mimic destiny

and the moons with their promiscuous grip


all are stains, sweet-nothings

opening an abyss within the sheets


a love too infinite to be called love

this ocean full of shadows


this masquerade of blind sonnets

the tide rising and rising...







...and here in this crust of bread

I can still taste


the sweat of strangers

a language that eats flesh


that turns blood into rust

and in this glass of black wine


my bitterness can still be heard

interrogating the dead


a flesh that eats language

that turns myth back into water


but out here

floating in the dark milk of space


is a strange tenderness, a music

that breaks the compulsive mind


a place of eerie transcendence

where even to exist at all feels obsolete


the outlines blurring

axioms again becoming water


a language that confounds the world

a world that confounds language...






...as spring throws its tracery over my eyes

and the summer glares off the ocean


so the autumn’s consummation widens

whispering to the coming winter


that now is the time for murder

for metadata to fulfil its promise


the indictments tilting the earth even more

this trail of dogma circling the sun


a line of purpled tongues strung out

and thrown overboard into the planet’s wake


a circumference none dare look at

this coincidence thrown over our eyes


the macabre winter

the tilt of the earth


and this obsession to glare endlessly

at our own murder


what does it say about us

when, at last, this consummation is over


and every promise is left

circling the sun...  






...we are the shadowy beast

the moloch waiting on the horizon


we have no face and no name

and like the tattooed mastodons and lizards


who roam the city’s streets

picking their meat from the sky


we have no regrets and no conscience

and it is the same with the homicides and spectres


who stand in their doorways

carefully combing their pubic hair


we have no friends and no enemies

only ourselves


so we are blessed, we are righteous

no-one is quite like us


we hunt the night

and eat only the dark meat


we breathe tattoos into men’s hearts

and watch as they turn into lizards


we are the shadows, the power and the glory

no-one is quite like us...