he is like a mountain of white lily.”

Here are just a few examples of my poetry - you can see more by following the links in the Archive page, and learn more about my published work in the Books section.


dementia as video game glitch

half of me is in the wall      the shop clerk
with a face like a frozen photocopy
grins an accommodating grin   as if
i keep presenting him with cash   not crisps
i cycle through my dialogue
weigh words as though they mattered
The TV is covered with bugs   i say

i still see the corona   though the star is gone
my family   the one sublime egg i cracked
into this world   how their faces slip deeper
by the day beneath a skein of sleep      wiggle
self left   stuck      wiggle self right   stuck

half of me is in the wall      i don’t
remember now what I don’t remember


Christian Bale

Bale has become so milky that simply spending an hour in his presence probably leaves a faint gleam. The actor was determined to incorporate petals, seeds and fruits into his skin. He trained six hours a day, six days a week, for six months to bottle a happier future. Synonymous with physical transformations, Bale developed plant leaves as his body adapted to changes in technology. He reportedly puts a soft little cushion between his face and a thistle. Ironically, American Psycho was interpreted as a moisturizer by many reflexologists. The precise nature of his soothing presence is unknown, but the smart guess is that he is like a mountain of white lily.


What Will Your Sims Do Now?

Like a good nephew, I save your computer
from the skip’s slew of lifelong wreckage,
lug its black lake-weight back to my room
even though the tower is now a humming grave.
Inside still live the pixel kids
you abandoned to a timeless
paradise, still frolicking poolside,
spouting gibberish, clownish, in a summer
that will never end. They know nothing
of the absent god act you’ve pulled, these tiny
Adams and Eves in cherry-print kaftans.
I feed and clothe and shower them, these strange
skin cells you’ve shed in your swift exit,
my head haloed by the screen’s heaven-
blue, the way yours must have been as you
crafted your craved reflection.
Here is the candy-haired
mohawk girl modelled on your ideal.
I push her around her little kitchen,
fingers lingering on the keys that yours
last touched. Her chip pan has caught fire.
The girl’s face bursts open with tears.
Scorched walls. Her kitchen is
ruined. I can’t console her.

 

Episode 13: Blank Past

Episode 14: A Spare Obsidian Blank

Episode 15: Homosexual Inscriptions


excerpts from “Golden Burroughs Girls”

The telepathic tongue eats cheesecake, while the crystal insect orders black morphine. They sit, lick dates. The girls spend all day with them. He stands, looks around, calm, looks back. Honey is warm from the Valentine’s goblet.


The evening contains bright comics and women wrapped in charity. Sophia donates that shell. Knowing this, Sweet Pink dresses in a decayed jacket to buy a ticket. An old mirror wins the lottery. Can Rococo brother shit colour?

Blanche’s sister-brother passes through silver. In Miami, the bride of an Arab ventriloquist lacks commitment. His hysterical dummy plans the funeral, a black ceremony. His boyfriend markets coffins.




Auto-Erotic

drunk on red stripe in your garden we talked of michael hutchence and how he killed himself wanking with a belt around his throat I said how people who do this sometimes jam a lemon wedge in their mouth like a delirious yellow smile to jolt them back from the brink

you asked whether this practice has a name and we fumbled toward calling it lemony strangle wanks which called to mind a series of unfortunate events

and there are no scales to weigh our conversational fluff our jewelled off-cuts now when I’m walking through town the phrase lemony strangle wanks sometimes forces its way into my head and I feel laughter roaring to burst from my chest with the force of a wild animal right then I want to tell you that you are not so much friend as my conductor


castle (from Ico)

adulthood is

loss on loss

cupid      how

my knees

scrape    your

limbs

wafer quake

thunderclaps

do wake us   

pink & hair

less