love lies in the echoing spaces - found through the crooked cartography that maps silences and sighs, finds solace and signposts - fixes longings in time, marks the distances, marks ley lines that cross and climax - follows the rolls and curves, hurried along by shouts, missed messages, the ache of a lost compassing love lies in the silent spaces - the vast, lonely, echoing places
-
love lines
-
salt
Salt on our tongues, from the sea, from our skin, it's the same. Here, where the water meets the sky, we stand, close enough to merge, distant enough to yearn. Anais whispers of lovers' unity, but we — we live it, in the silent language of touch. No words, just the taste of the ocean, as we become the sea, endless, ancient, one.
-
pygmalion’s hammer
You were standing in the morning light, cheeks flushing, filling slowly, first breath - your half smile lifting slow, auburn hair falling, left eyebrow arching - and your promise was knowing, and the price was my breaking, to create the ending I am now enduring - the ending I chose to defer you were auburn eye alight, pale skin, warm flesh, you who are white like milk - a prayer answered, the piece I’d missed, the comfort denied Galatea standing, stepping into the light, slipping into the arms of a man I’ll never meet - this coward Pygmalion’s chisel and hammer dropping to the floor, watching as Galatea walks away into the light
-
this giver
I think what there is about space and time, is how you can slice inside it and see sections, sometimes expose a lesion or tumor. Sort of like how you can be slicing garlic so thin, with the new chefs knife you splurged on, handmade hand stamped, reflective. Dangerous. Slicing as you keep an eye on the bombs hitting skin in Gaza, the reaping of bodies from kibbutzs in Israel. Slice slice. Into a clove, exposing rot, unexpected. Exposing entropy, the rot within that slowly spreads.
But I’m busy, now, with the washing of the dishes, and you’re pretty far away now, this Thanksgiving, you and our children. Are they eating, yet? Is there laughter, or is there a hole? What type of pie, who brined and cooked, what hands sliced and served? Is our daughter calmer now? Our son, how is his concussion? What stories are told, and what is forgotten?
How bitter are the fruits, this year?
-
autumnal
suck lightly at the nipple - 1g carts are a better deal, but they can clog so suck then it’s a bit bitter, the smoke burnt, bitter, memory there’s a time-gap, falls between eyes opening, the multiple snoozings, the piss, the aching pain still lasting, some inner healing still required, some loose suture where bladder meets cock between that first eey opening, the process, and then pills, their digestion, absorption adaptation there’s a time where I’m actually awake, so then this bitter smoke serves, becomes a burnt bridge to get through the wreckage, to survive the dawn
-
Washing Language | Миття мови | Tongue washing
First We are all thinking of Ukraine we are all wearing gold and blue we are translating this to Ukrainian Google translate and back to English again Strange English strange Ukrainian Strange dreams Lumps littering Bucha’s streets Lumps littering evacuation routes Strange language Strange lumps And this swelling need —the whisper, the wind across the eyes The translation from future To this language of past, of memory Of blue and gold lumps Stained red Друге Ми всі думаємо про Україну ми всі одягнені в золото та синє ми перекладаємо це на укр Гугл перекладач і назад на англійську знову Дивна англійська дивний українець Дивні сни Грудки сміття Вулиці Бучі Грудки сміття шляхи евакуації Дивна мова Дивні грудочки І ця припухлість потрібна — шепіт, вітер в очі Переклад з майбутнього На цю мову минулого, пам'яті З блакитних і золотих грудочок Пофарбований у червоний колір Third We all think about Ukraine we are all dressed in gold and blue we translate it in Ukrainian Google translator and back in English again Strange English strange Ukrainian Strange dreams Lumps of garbage Bucha streets Lumps of garbage evacuation routes Strange language Strange lumps And this swelling is needed - whispers, wind in the eyes Translation from the future In this language past, memory From blue and gold lumps Painted red
-
Now We Are Cold
Autumn, drying leaves, fallen apples rotting underfoot, sullen teens attending to bitter, underloved instructors. The horses at their paces, steamed breath pressed out from heated tunnels into colder air, like a dying dragon's last smoke flowing from within buried caverns. This bitter liver, swollen, the dull right ache. Lager and cider - wet blankets for burying hope. Into this forever fall - crooked fingers, bent like empty branches, to your empty shoulder - It is so easy to forget how intimacy fled, and hid amidst the mountains overhead.
-
The Sixteenth
This kiss,
this aching rod – ash turned and turned,
wood piercing world: axis mundi,the stars spinning, damp cobwebs catching
reflected light, draped across torn skin –
the blood which drips, the soil which fed,these buried lips, stirring,
Pando shaking, aching, this stirring wood
-
Any Moment Now
Might be something by Eno, might be music,
really waves drawing back along stones,
the wet revealing unpolished fragments
and razor clam shells exposed, slicingJagged foot paths –
curved, aimless, unEnglish-garden-style,
the fog covering the means and ways,
that cut and bruise, draw sacrificial blood with each stepLost, alone in weird thoughts,
a mind criss-crossed with witchy ley lines,
webbed with flickering lights,
dragged out and formed by drunken spidersThis….
This fog
This beating heart,
uneven and unmeasured,
this pain within, the fogThe quiet feet dragging,
blooded footprintsThe feet seeking water,
the mind seeking silence,
seeking fathomsAnd a darkness to finally drown in
-
Whether Committal
Do you want me?
Every time the wind shifts
How much is every?
It’s weather – it’s always shifting