Thursday, 10 July 2014

to be

To be honest, sometimes I get dizzy picking at the sides of my happiness, making sure that it's all real.

To be honest, sometimes I come to at the side of the canal and my friend is singing that song again, the one he changed the lyrics to, so it would really, definitely, be about me.

To be honest, 5.33 is not such a silly time to go home and go to bed.

To be honest, the only reason I am writing these words is to wake up on another day and remember that there was a throb of morning light yesterday and I wandered here and I felt so giddy and so fine. 

Tuesday, 8 July 2014



back in each other's fists like cut rope

I say sailors or cowboys?
so many questions we haven't asked each other yet

I say let's play the unravelling game
ribbons and anchors all over the floor


I sickle your throat adora-blue and burnt hickey

my jaw is a vice closing around your beams

your neck sinews give me lash quiver

possession is nine-tenths of my mouth


you ask the same question until I am beset by giggles

I take your thumb to the cove of my throat
promising summer and swallows

I tell you rhinestones and good breeding
hairspray. pouting. intent.


I vomit into an envelope and walk to the letterbox

spraygold shoes on dead tarmac

will you upend it on your thighs and marvel?

sprinkle glitter until you stand and it sticks?


still not used to this giddy
I cough up nasturtiums / you cough up leg bruises

splotches of red and green and gold

when you are gone I dress in short shorts
I marvel at the cartography of my thighs


my friend cannot believe I am not asking

they say how can you rekindle
before you have all the answers in your mouth?


I did not expect my woods to be filled with such dry tinder


I crack open books at all my favourite lines:

I'm exaggerating so you can get to know me faster

please describe your vomiting / it is like a psalm to me

time moved inelegantly and without my consent


we get to know each other again fast

time moves by its own ballasts

I cannot describe our throw-up

the only thing I regurgitate is what is here and what is now


you dress me as cleopatra
I dress myself in wrestling clothes

on the floor I shape my hands around the dreamgirl's throat

awkwardness turns into bats &
flocks from the trees when we clap our hands


back inside each other I tell you stories

I hand you cleavers

my heart is mast lines and riding crops

I form all the answers you haven't asked me for, yet

Monday, 7 July 2014


I wake with pants full of ants. It’s the thunderstorms. Or the old friends. Or the new benders, again & again. The slip and the slide.

I meant to get up earlier today; I meant to embark on the week as if the week were a pony and all the things that grip me in the night were merrily painted hurdles my week’s hooves could catapult over.

I slept late.

I meant to have a quiet night last night, but you know how those go. How could I resist anything? The Wagonplatz glowing fairy lights & film screens in the twist towards dusk. Those Sternis, those spilling of secrets. When I walked D home, the sun had already mustered itself in the corners of the sky, and it was balmy, and wheeling my bike was a whispered I like you in the ear of a friend. 

Today, the afternoon air is thick and carbuncled. It is starting to rain—the drops are like fists. I cannot stop thinking about hickeys. I want to wake up with so many neck bruises, so many bite marks in skin.

How could I resist anything? Why would I resist anything? I have large hands with scarred knuckles and gold nailpolish and I am hefty with want.

The thunderstorms make me think of A, because he is always talking about fucking in thunderstorms, and, of course, the thunderstorms make me think about fucking in thunderstorms.

(Scorpios. Obviously. Trouble & scorpios & kabooms & skin.)

I wake with pants full of ants and I feed the ants coffees and I refresh the internet and I write the same words over and over hoping that, in doing so, I can alchemise time.

I haven’t spent a night at home alone in so many weeks I have almost forgotten what the inside of my brain smells like. I want nothing more than to lock all of the doors and switch off all of the devices and lie underneath a skylight and listen to the thrum of the rain.

But I have made promises. But I am still dreaming of fucking in thunderstorms. But the world is built of large hands and scarred knuckles and sometimes the world is so grabby, so greedy—I get it. I let it take me. I try to hold onto my shins.

Saturday, 5 July 2014


We are in bed again and the light coming through the curtains is cunt pink, which means it is probably already afternoon. I am telling him about Odysseus. No, wait. I am telling him about Circe; Circe is the salient detail. Odysseus is just something that happened along the way.

I am telling him how Odysseus showed up on Circe’s island and she turned all his crewmates into pigs. How he stayed with her in her lady cave for years, while Penelope wove and unwove her blanket. How Circe hushed, “Shh, shh, stay here a while” while turning the looms of her magic; while flickering snake tongues on his cock.

Here, I get the details wrong, which is to be expected, because it is eight years since I studied classical literature, because I am telling this story for a certain effect, because I am re-enacting all the salient details.

The truth is even more interesting (the truth often is).

In reality, Odysseus shows up on Circe’s island, but Odysseus stays with the boats while his men make their way to the woods, where Circe dwells in a mansion surrounded by docile lions and wolves. Surrounded, that is, by men she has bewitched. She is a good hostess, Circe. She brews them a feast. But the wine is laced with potion, the cup is enchanted. The crew drink and forget their homes, and she turns them into pigs.

All but Eurylochus, suspicious Eurylochus, who forsakes the wine and piggery to sneak back to Odysseus and warn him of the danger. Odysseus strides to the rescue and this is where things could have gone so differently had he not been intercepted by that trickster, that meddler, Hermes. Hermes gives Odysseus moly, an antidote to Circe’s magic, and tells him that, when she feeds him her potion, when she draws her wand, he should threaten her with his sword.

So he does.

Circe is amazed that Odysseus is unharmed by her magic, and not a little dazzled by that sword against her throat. Circe licks her lips and swoons. Circe says, “Sheathe your sword and let us go to bed, that we may make friends and learn to trust each other.”

But Odysseus, always with the conditions, never one to leap into the moment, replies, “Circe, how can you expect me to be friendly with you when you have just been turning all my men into pigs? And now that you have got me here myself, you mean me mischief when you ask me to go to bed with you, and will unman me and make me fit for nothing. I shall certainly not consent to go to bed with you unless you will first take your solemn oath to plot no further harm against me.”

So she does.

Circe promises—no more plotting!—and they go to bed.

They stay there for a year. They feast and drink wine and makeout all day long.

But it is not her magic that keeps him there; it is not a spell. As Penelope weaves and unweaves her blanket, waiting, sending away suitors, Odysseus sticks around because Circe? Circe is so much fun.

Circe says, “Stay here, and eat and drink till you are once more as strong and hearty as you were when you left Ithaca; for at present you are weakened both in body and mind; you keep all the time thinking of the hardships you have suffered during your travels, so that you have no more cheerfulness left in you.”

No more cheerfulness left! Fortunately, Circe is an expert in cheer.

“Thus did she speak and we assented. We stayed with Circe for a whole twelvemonth feasting upon an untold quantity both of meat and wine.”

Of course you did, Odysseus.

I am so charmed by this story. Circe does not need magic or spells or trickery. Circe gets what she wants by kisses and wine.

Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Tonight at Curious Fox

I'll be reading poems, come?

Flughafenstra├če 22 // 8pm // free

full of stuff

There are things we forget and sometimes it feels like life won’t stop overlapping itself; sometimes it feels like life is oozing with so much stuff.

I feel the things running through the soil like seams of gold and copper. I feel them run—electricity sprinting through circuit boards—and I hold my fingers outstretched and let the crackle leap inside my nails.

I had forgotten. I am teeth and ink and bruises. I am circuitry running in parallel and all of life happening at once.

Oh my god, so many cuties. The town crier rings their bell three times and says, “You, sweetheart, how are you going to choose?” and you shake your head and you laugh. You say, “I want everything and it all.”

And sometimes the past is a small, pinched place filled with ultimatums.

I guess to get here we had to walk through so many copses, so many paths in the woods. Links, rechts, geradeaus? I guess it doesn’t matter. Didn’t you always leave a thumb behind in the Choose Your Own Adventure pages?

It isn’t cheating. It’s just figuring things out.

Another week in this city and there are so many things I need to pack into the box of time. I forget appointments, so I tattoo them on my skin with biros. I forget to eat, so I feast on the flesh of my friends.

I am convinced there is room for everything. A is laughing on the kitchen counter. He wipes his eyes. He says we were different people, then.

Thursday, 19 June 2014

The Osiris Myth

Everyday Genius just published my poem, The Osiris Myth.

They are Melissa Broder's publishers, which means they are totally badass and awesome, which means you should go and read that right about now.

Monday, 16 June 2014

The gulf

Somewhere in the gulf between excitability and accountability, I find a foothold. I climb up. The view from the top is multi-directional and spattered with gobs of grin. Big toothy white lumpfest. I feel good.

The week was one of old friends and new cricks in the neck. The week was wonderful. The week wriggled and wrought the destinies we deserved and, in the shelves high above the city, a mina bird copied the caw of my cry.

Everything is still falling off the walls. I paste photographs of myself to every available surface. I subsist on tinned fish and espresso and kissing the insides of my elbows, the way we’d practice when we were young, before we were quite sure how to get it right.

The insides of my elbows have no tongues and the tinned fish has no backbone but the espresso? The espresso has everything.

Somewhere in the gulf between excitability and accountability, I make the right choice and scramble. We reach a plateau, we reach the source, we get mud between our toes. I survey the lay of the land and press my teeth together. I think of filth. I whisper to my elbow: One day, all of this will be yours.