Poetry Archives Bio
February 6, 2018
12:54 PM
To Work!

I pour myself a hot black cup of coffee from a pot;
Its thousand staring eyes are blinking—beady, bright.
Perhaps I'll let it cool here on the desk,
And when the time comes—sit, sip, write.

January 23, 2018
8:59 AM
staff of asclepius

To Rod Moody-Corbett

it is always early in your country
and i love you for this

like the morning loves its cockadoodledoos
(emphasis on the doodle


I am on the crapper
after giving the millstone my all

recollecting a twelve year old's
vaginal bestiary of mind

alien vs. predator
(though always more predator than alien


with the telemetric dropsy of our age
i don't need figures or facts

i don't need a metric for lonelineſs
lickety split tickety boo

i make a recovery point for history
and fuck it all up for giggles and shits


it's easy to forget how to chew
or walk or sleep so suddenly

I find myself among the streets
debased by the collusive wind and rain

looking up things (aside from consonants
to do in reykjavik



it is too early still but here I am
the victim of long liquid shits from birds

(avenging ortolans fondus
sans either veritas or vino


i shall call thee the male sunrise
the tentative and tender auroron

pallidus mane that moves across the ciels
the buffer zone between myself and teleos


last night i dreamt from prison an escape
to rescue from a ravager my child

my spine and soul they wind around my ache
like mapplethorpe's caduceus (or worse


back of the bass rubbed by a loving knee
letters from hermes/aphrodite's son

how it all shines and fits (when it wants it can
both do and go against your nature

and what of the man?
he wipes his left nipple with sawdust and moves on



nothing is knowable save for love

January 3, 2018
10:02 PM
exorcycle

To Michał Minicki

the bills are paid  the cocktails left behind
illuminate my face in the dark glass

the gym is cloudy  someone shows her ass
her legs  her tits  in a deep stretch entwined

and I must wonder  as I speed amass
whether the dog is barking in the street

whether the rolling fog is at my feet
or in my mind

January 2, 2018
9:45 AM
George

I water the plant on my desk
his name is George

when the water seeps
through his small pot

George reminds me a lot
of moist earth after rain

on my desk at work
on the sixteenth floor

George quietly sits
in this city insane

December 31, 2017
1:44 PM
death on venus

To Paul Samotik

the east china sea is quiet and calm
my weather changes with the mood

a hard yellow line leads up the hill
(this flesh is linger fickin' good


I want to pray but to whom and how
what gestures to make and what pains to rend

perhaps I can wave at a plane suspended in air
and then I'll begin to unbreak rather than mend


the eye in the sky it roars at me now
full of riveted metal and godliness

the madman littorally screams in the ei
he must be given a knowing audience


someone at ornhub dot com really knows
what the word interstitial means

walk for an hour? wakaranai
there's a gaping hole in your jeans


add a steady refrain that carries you on
with each step a sin to confess

please repeat after me I've done a whole lot
more for a whole lot less


why try? the wind is a squirrely squall
that will snatch your pronouncements away

walking back to my fate
the menacing airbase is dark


trumpets in the park work in shifts
and the gust  the gale  my god

how sound makes me high
the clouds flatten and the wind lifts

December 24, 2017
9:14 PM
The Twelve Days of Sickness

Inspired by Jess Nicol

On the first day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
My heart burnt to the third degree.

On the second day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the third day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the fourth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the fifth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the sixth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the seventh day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the eighth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the ninth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the tenth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the eleventh day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Grumbling and griping,
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

On the twelfth day of sickness
My true love gave to me:
Empty homecoming,
Grumbling and griping,
Restlessly sleeping,
Her fun's financing,
Much wooden wanking,
Throwing things and screaming,
Sexless roleplaying,
Clean-cut hamstrings,
Four-letter words,
Freaked-out friends,
A dirty stove,
And my heart burnt to the third degree.

11:43 AM
desmond doss, spiderman

To Rod Moody-Corbett

exact change is a matter of life and death

the city is empty
the loudest cars still belong to the blacks

the jets fly overhead
the boys and girls play separate sports


the old man paints a picture of durian gay
using nothing but crushed hibiscus and gasoline

the black army mom in the red KUWAIT hoodie
waits for breakfast

here you must carry it all with you


your trash
                your sadneſs
                                   your precious bodily fluids

near the old graveyard
a little way from the centre of the village

the diver falls into the umbilical deep
the moon is here with him too


the vomit bakes in the sun

the gentle wind reminds the poet
of the smell of tatami mats and old things

the colourful offerings lie on the altar
the priest beats a drum while intoning a prayer


the childless couple offer gifts to buddha
the goats dance towards the clock above the exit sign

the army bros brag about poon tang and cash
the self is revealed high on the ferris wheel

(beware of cars with plates that start with why


two boys play too close to the side of the road

the strange man imagines a faceful of shrapnel
running after a runaway yellow ball

the poet laughs sincerely at his fate
as it begins to pour

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