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...