it’s all feathers

February 28, 2007

He stares again at the mountain:
climbing or falling it’s all feathers.
He sticks his heart with a quill
and the red rises like mercury.

Hearts flying, hearts casting shells
like eagles crack livid things
to scoop hearts and make feathers.

I gave up making sense, because
some fool made sense in a shell
and called it a mountain. It’s all

feathers and falling, plucking
and climbing and flying into morning.


coffee in smaller hours

February 28, 2007

And at this time I ask myself for the four hundred and fifty seventh time: is it too late to make myself a coffee?


p.s. I’ve put this post in ‘cheescake’, just because. Haha it gets into literature too. Not history. That would be almost disrespectful. Though it is about the history of my coffee drinking habit…

it’s going in history.

But some things are sacred; I draw the line here, just before – well I’ll show you:



pain (senryu)

February 26, 2007

She watches him limp
as fliers peel in the wind.
Phonecall splits moment.

You told me you are two moons now
and monsoon you do not yet see.
Maybe you will orb away from me –
and I know the law: the Buddha’s lamp
lit pages that wrote themselves in our sky.

I will let you go. We will talk again
when your clouds are wisps, and the green
dresses your land, rocks split gently,
houses and rooms and windows
whispering afterglow. All true friends know.

friends (senryu)

February 22, 2007

He stares at his feet;
friends: like itches or tingles
in loving ghost limbs.

empty talk

February 22, 2007

Black tea. Sugarless,
rank like medicine. How we hate
to heal. I long for the calm

white flowers
that the Chinese praise
like fragrant gods. A salve
to cleave the blur before the moment.

London is the same. I buy
cigarettes, not tobacco, at the train station,
and curl into the maelstrom
as if I lit the glow

and am its owner.
Empty talk –

maybe I will walk tonight
till I meet myself coming home.

everywhere but the sun

February 22, 2007

We talk of moons
or Mary; we prefer shadow puppets
to blockbusters. We shadow box:

we rarely fight. The light
is not ours to tame. It draws us
everywhere but the sun.

objet d’art

February 21, 2007

Today I am a small, spongy, iridescent objet d’art. I am a found piece. I once nestled between the sheets of Tracy Emin’s bed, waiting for her warm body, but she never returned. I was lucky to escape when the gallery burnt down.

I was stuck with gull spittle to the shell of the tortoise that Charles Darwin petted in the Galapagos Islands. He wiped me on his trousers and I reminded him of the finches back home. He brought me back to England; I missed the island, its warm body.

I was accidentally dropped into the workings of the satellite that the Chinese government recently shot down. For several years I watched the cosmos and drew my own conclusions about the nature of things. Some passing aliens took pity on me, as I reminded them of the finches back home. They talked to me for hours, about Tracy Emin. I nestled between their stars.

I was lucky to survive the explosion.

Sometimes, I am the thing you did not order on your pizza, but today I am a small, spongy, iridescent objet d’art, just soaking up impressions. I am a found piece. I never meant to reflect anything.


They say that God is love. So it’s not so odd that when you love someone they become your God. she says she has this dream where she is swallowed by the water, and becomes its daughter and mother, the other, but she’s trailing flame and I know she’s gonna sizzle before she fizzles out like a candle flame and Alice is still wondering what one looks like after it has gone out, because she can’t remember ever having seen such a thing, but I caught a glimpse once of the place where all the fire goes after burning for the engine that keeps the world turning. Spinoza called it the uncaused, the heart of things that is no-heart, no-mind, the no-string that tangles and unwinds. Seek and you shall find.

She says hey, luna, I’m tripping, the moon’s fallen in water and can’t swim if he’s the prettiest thing in the night sky does that give me the right to put a face to an icon I need for my story and drown him? But that was how it was then, I didn’t know where I ended or if that’s where she’d begin telling tales she’d seen reflected in a hall of mirrors, the priests tell the sinners that blood floats on water, fools feast on mud before they’re slaughtered again but this dirt tastes sweet, I wandered hours with that girl, for a week of proving God is seven, or is she buying whisky from the seven eleven to take to Brighton Beach where the wind screams need? But we’re free of that aren’t we? We are dead seeds.

They hurt you real bad as a child, opened you up for fun and tore your insides, left you wild and prone to rages I was looking to be the co-dependent player on your stages. We were born in a time that was just getting strange Kurt Cobain got commodified and died but they could still feed his screams to the masses like the Blood of Christ, and maybe I listened too long cause after a short while I was asking you where did you sleep last night and was it in the pines, pierced with those savage needles of light? We drank every evening, danced in graveyards like Tori, and were sorry it was never enough, had to break the tough skin and get in to the heart between us to swim in open night.

We walk into the lake, a pact like suicide but whiter, and the water is making womb fish for us to ride out of sight.

And her eyes are coral white and wide as the sun dies in the last of its light, for seven lifetimes we’ve been meeting like this too late to catch the last train to our wake and the devas are glowing in the distance and whispering quietly so as not to alarm us Tolkien said dark elves never left middle earth for heaven because they loved the stars too much to miss seeing them for a second, though after that second we’d touch like that painting by Michaelangelo that I think says it all, to give up means a hand passing a dagger made of sand into your magicians hand so he’ll sleight it into doves and fly laughing from the cracking hourglass like Buddha, as universal brothers, we thieve in wonder and split fat fruit bloody through our fingers, blistered from hot sugar and milk and honey and that’s the way the money goes weasel, now pop for me. I paid for this and will pay more in time.

There is nothing here. The walls are pale and the mother is watching bright birds fly from their prisons of flesh. We pass through a prism, mesh and bind and split. It is not our time.

I am born again without you, far far away.

Dawn is grey here. Greyer than anywhere. She is melting into cloud faces and giggling in birdsong. She is gone.

‘We sponsored him fairly heavily. He said there’d be five, maybe six positive poems about cheese. There aren’t any poems about cheese.’

Representative of the Campaign For A Fair Deal For British Cheese

‘He gave us a workshop on self-expression. The man doesn’t know sh*t about self expression. He’s completely uptight.’

Andrew Gubbins, youth leader

‘I am interested in reading his latest poems, because I am an amnesiac.’

Ivor Gett

‘He doesn’t use enough words. Some of his poems have less than twenty words in them. Beowulf has thousands.’


‘Did he really call Ted Hughes a c**t?’

Andrew Motion