Tuesday, 22 April 2014

21. Nettles

A wise man told me:

    Wear gloves thick enough
to repel the nettles
    your fingers will be too fat
for the scissors’ holes.

I threw three coins and cast the mountain.

The mountain said:
    The heart thinks constantly
and I laughed,

for mine is steeped
    in lunge and whim.

I sat cross-legged at the mountain’s feet.

I asked of the mountain:

    Tell me how to conduct myself
for my electricity is fickle
    and impossible to earth.

The mountain sighed and shook the ground.

    The movements of the heart
        —that is, a man’s thoughts—
    should restrict themselves
to the immediate situation.
    All thinking that goes beyond this
        only makes the heart sore.

I left the mountain.

I drew a ring of daisies around
    these present lovers
fingers tingling with
    tiny vicious currents.

—I lied:
there was no wise man.
—I meant to tell you:
    I picked the nettles myself.

20. Smitten


You got the noisecandy
I scraped the gauze heart

How’s a girl supposed to
    fix up curtains
Between want & intent?

Your tunamelt cadence
Sank me to ocean floors

I made starfish daisychains
Halos to snag your muscle

You stored your summerpop
    in conch shells, which

I held to my ears &
Got smitten on hula hula

You blew vowelbubbles
We sucked crabmeat

I fell down the fathoms
I landed beneath the waves

Monday, 21 April 2014

19. Choices

What broke? You were the one
of lazercats & exploding candy

who wrung the skins of the small hours
to eke out dawn’s juice.

Remember when everything beneath
our soles was mattress springs?

When, looped on gravity, we reneged
our feet-promise to the floor?

Remember? Besotted by power tools,
you drilled LPs to the ceiling

so that music drummed on our collar bones
like thunderous summer rain.

I miss that. Something slipped; the soil split—

for a moment, you were bow-legged,
trying for footholds
    on each side of the gorge.

Distracted by avalanches,
I glimpsed away.

Then she held her hand out.
Then you chose.

Saturday, 19 April 2014

18. Eke

Tomorrow will be 3m 55s
longer than today.

Enough time
to gulp four oysters
play a pop song out of tune

yank off
almost all of our clothes.

These days are oozing
overripe camemberts
we stick our fingers in
luxuriate in goo.

Cycling home beneath
the wallow of cherry blossom

we yank fistfuls of moments
to smear upon our chests.

Let’s eke out all of it—
the three minutes
and fifty-five seconds.

Let’s fill ourselves to the brim
and luxuriate
in the glug.

17. Twigs

“Let’s gather sticks,” he said.

Beneath our feet were broken
acorns striving to take root.

Everything was twigs.

We made small pyres—
bonfires for the voles,

their lithe velvet bodies
fit to stuff in our pockets.

Night fell like soft black snow,
gathering in clumps and hollows.

Our fires were tiger eyes
that blinked in the breeze.

We followed the tigers
all the way to the water.

We made boats from twigs
to sail across the Styx.

Friday, 18 April 2014

16. Hasenheide

Before the fair, the grass hollow
is still a cupped palm,
aching to be filled with candy.

This spring, this benevolent aunt,
has sprinkled puce caravans

& gaudy day-glo waltzers
amputated from their sockets.

Without skeletons, the waltzers
are abandoned porch swings
dreaming of dust.

We are still on the inhale.

The moment before the crest
of the coaster,
our bellies suspended in sky.

Lungs primed
to helter skelter.

In one week we will be flung
confetti, gorged on neon,
exploding gunpowder buckets.

Today we wait with outstretched
palms, waiting
for the gumballs to drop.

Wednesday, 16 April 2014

15. Was this not yet enough?

Listen. We already repurposed
the broken benches of our lives
for new shelves,
for matchstick people
glued together with
the unlicked envelope flaps
of bills we hadn’t got to
yet. We already did good.

When everything was calcified
hip bones, when quicksands
gnawed our blue parasols &
nothing could block
out the sky: we did fine.

Better. We became outlaws
sketching new candescent
lungs. We spun
words from taffy.

Really? Do we still need
to face the letterbox
(it could be rank
with dragon claws
& the lurk of collectors)?

Werewolf demands for all
the scrolls we took as tapers.

I think we’ve done enough—
we can opt out of believing
in four white corners
in missives.

Listen. We already trekked
jungles and now, you, now
you expect me to pick up the mail.

14. Scour

A memory: saying a word
I knew I should not
to feel it burst like a plum
in my mouth.

And: touching a thigh
I shouldn’t—I knew—
but who knows where thighs go
in the dawn?

My mother took soap
and scoured my tongue, with
crushed beetles, bile, frenzied pink.

And the word turned to bubbles,
lodged in my neck

to be hocked up later
    in beds, on backs,
pinned against the wall.

Last night I descended
into bathtubs. 

I scoured my skin. I am still
that girl, who will make
a fast thing mine. Who will taste
everything with tongue.

The loofah smelled of
pine & peat,
distillery casks.

I wallowed in bubbles.
I wrote your name in foam.

I soaked in the water until I
was already clean.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

13. spring makeout haiku

tangerine mouthfeel
without meaning it, you got
grass stain on my heart

12. Of all things

This, of all things, is easy.

You’ve the keys to my bikes & houses,
I’ve the passwords to your presence

so when you die I can update them all:

see you later stop
    I love you stop
        be back soon (stop)
            I’m gone

This, of all things, is not
quail eggs or sugar-perspex;

it will not shatter in the morning
under the heft of beams of sun.

Of all things, I am grateful that
no matter how lewd or loose

the evening gets, by hangover
I am already forgiven.

My like for you is tough bricks
& scaffold poles.

Already, we have vaulted the cringe.

Monday, 14 April 2014

11. Cartwheels

I woke today believing
I could whirl cartwheels—

warum nicht? After all,
it’s been twelve months &

the fountain is regurgitating
summer, the dandelions

have recommenced
the assault on the lawn.

It’s not so strange that
somewhere in the lunge

of night, gymnastics
soaked into my bones.

What I mean is stranger
things have happened.

It’s been twelve months &
we are not dead yet;

when the wolves pawed
the door we gouged

their golden eyes
with splintered sticks.

The wolves cried blood.

I woke today grinning &
tossed one leg after another.

My ankles recommenced
their flight to the moon.