the cars seem to float
among invisible gray whales,
a sheet of slippery sea beneath our peddling feet The body of the city
red balls of yarns in the queen's closet
As if beckoning closure, awaiting a larger moment The body of the city
unfettered beneath the moon,
a pan of milk in an untidy sky Your skin,
gathered similarly into a gasp
beneath that one dimple,
the one that sits, a monk in sycamore trees Your body–
Baby Boomers transformed, Thanos snap-like,
from skunky, fringed revolutionaries
into cable news-mainlining reactionaries,
modern-day slavers who buried their descendants
in mounds of student loan debt, inaccessible housing prices
and a scorched-earth dearth of economic opportunity. The much-maligned millennial generation,
blamed for the killing of mayonnaise, tuna pouches, Hooters
and countless other dust-draped doilies in the old folks’ homes,
soldiered on despite d
“trainers” is british english for “sneakers” I took some of my dad’s trainers The last time I saw him. He is not yet dead
He can still walk
But he cannot run
He can only really shuffle. He doesn’t need trainers
And though I sometimes say
I don’t need him
I do enjoy
Thinking about my dad
The younger him
The healthier him
When I am far away
And trying to make myself fitter. three half-arsed tries Though I am now
The happiest I’ve ever been I sometimes still wish
It’s all there for free now, all there for her
swooping down in plain sight, in
broad daylight, hands out in hungry claws pulling
all those lovely teeth loose. No more need for fancy hairdos, or sparkly
pink dresses, or even
the crystal scepter, now that there are no more
insomniac children left to catch her in the act.
She can wear anything she
wants now, jeans, a t-shirt, a backwards baseball cap, a food-splattered muumuu, or even nothing at all.
Nobody’s left to s
Chandelier Above us hangs
a chandelier of beating hearts
the hearts of generations past
of cherished pets
of pigs and hens and cows
for us to eat with greasy
laughing fingers music plays in amongst
the clink of glasses
the scrape of cutlery
the shrieks of joy
but silence bides its time
and in that silence
muffled thumps hidden in the weaves
and piles below
are pinprick specks
of fallen blood
reminding us of death
Making the fire Each morning I’d get up and make the fire –
a pocket-money job , and yet
one I enjoyed. The house was still and cold.
A thin, insipid light seeped through the blinds.
I riddled last night’s embers , watched the ash
float down in feathers to the tray below.
I’d put that out later. Time to build. A cube of firelighter, waxy, white
as compressed snow, then scrumpled newspaper
and kindling twigs to give a solid base.
I’d take some shiny nuts of coal and p
Gone in Silence Insult me.
Burn me. Make me your little joke,
and insult me.
Insult me to the content of your mind.
Rock me on the edge of
your middle finger;
whip me with the lines of your palm,
and when your tyrannous will
is done, wean me off on
to your toes. Score the goals that
will satisfy your ego. Insult me
what is the insult without the insulting?
What is the insulting without the insult? Drink me.
Insult me. Make me your alcoho
Muted They sat on a bench that was spotted with bird shit. They didn’t mind. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and his were spread apart at forty-five degrees, so that in reality their share of the bench was a sixty-forty affair. She didn’t mind. He ate his sandwich, then his crisps, then his apple in succession and she ate hers all at once, taking bites of each and balancing her crisps on her knee. Her napkin had already blown away and her drink rolled off the bench and he
Catenation Your eyes peep into chapters of my
opuscule with incessant questioning.
I enjoy the interrogation. Someone
is interested, I tell myself. Evading
the uncomfortable fits into form for
inveterate personages. It hasn’t been
a noisy commute. I choose quiet corners.
In quiescence the illusionist is quelled.
Ploys of an archimage aren’t for adults. Regimen Each worse than the other:
an array of the imperfect.
To bird-dog impeccability
is a botched postulation.