There´s a parade in the square today:
Generals and a beauty queen. Soldiers
the colour of Atacama. They speak and
salute and a gunshot strews pigeons
to circle the air above the arches. A moment

later, as they puff and court
I watch an old woman feed the birds,
her smile opens seams of sunlight in the cracks
and the plaza glows white and golden.
I think the god of war must look like her.



October 4, 2007

I will learn autumn like a harp,
forage it for soot swelled blackberries
and sweet chestnuts to caramelise;
I will sweep the death colours into sweetness, the reds,
the endless reds that rain past the throats of flowers
who wring their plain grief like widows
as frost tombs the sod, and the shadow hangs like crows.

July 25, 2007

And another exciting link for your perusal:

Find out what is going on here


July 25, 2007

Spam poetry anyone?

back from the ether

July 21, 2007

I am back, though I may be a mirage that only I can see. I have pinched myself and am still screaming.


no time

May 9, 2007

I have twenty minutes to write to you all. It’s spitting rain (what ‘it’ is spitting? A sky chav?), that fine kind that wants to ease itself into mist and shrug off the doom of splashing on pavements. I have thirteen minutes left. Will McDonalds really give the money to charity? Everyone on these streets looks complete, but only at first glance;their faces are scribbled with shadowmaps, the whys of their wheres. She looks away from her friend on the top of the bus and recoils, so quick she does not see herself doing so. Seven minutes. Now six. I mix her dark hair with rain and make ink. ‘This’, she is saying. ‘This. What does it still want with me?’. Three minutes. Two minutes. Now I have the urge to count in seconds, like the individual bodies of raindrops.



April 22, 2007

It waits in the mirror
like a photograph you were cut from.
It is the dark plane behind your curls,
the blindness you unfurl to, tentative
as a boy by a cliff edge testing clouds
for firmness like fruit that poisons

once in a blue moon. It offers and you
feel barbs itch to root inside you
and lay bloodworm eggs, the opposite
of wings. Sometimes it takes shape,
when the shell teeters to crack and pour
or when you are stilled enough to hear
feathers wake like a rift in dukkha.


March 18, 2007

I crushed your fingertip in my door;
you were game then: let’s take a picture
of the bruise.
Your dark shell
explodes into yellow, magenta. A mangle of friendly fire.

You kept the photo
like a warning. I would find it
in the drawer with the stamps,
under piles of your writing or
marking the heave of a page
in a heavy tome.

I notice you have no scars
wonder if you are an immortal,
a daydream, a modern Blodeuwydd
curved from polymers
themselves made from the petrol
that once fueled my howls for colour.

I stopped finding the picture,
and soon after that you stopped daring me
to steal us milk bottles at dawn, or
put my hand between your legs
on train journeys. You would observe me

as if I was a scab you once enjoyed picking.
The day you told me about him, I called you
all the names, breathed them slowly to you,
like bloody petals. You smiled,
sickeningly wise and said you must know
you can’t hurt me.

the urge to concoct soundbites is almost always a false front for not having the energy to write poems today

endlessly’s muse