Featured Work Archive
Mother was too pale
to cough black, so Father
became the house;
a face of weathered granite
melded with stones, kept crooked
by the constant wind raging
off the moors.
I look to the fields and know
the scarecrow sees me,
he's been whispering.
When the weathervane turns,
his snakes hiss across the crops.
I don’t want to listen anymore
but the ground connects us.
I watch the walls at night, my back
to the flames, creatures come to dance
behind me. He told me not to turn
so I watch a life of shadows flying
with the sun and rain, straining
to see the subtleties.
He's moving closer to the house,
I call the children in from the washing line
they've been out all day, flapping like larks
on the breeze. I hold them to my cheek,
smell their folded hair.
He's outside the window now. I haven’t moved
for days. The house growls as the wind changes
direction. He's sitting at my table, insects sprawl
from his outstretched hands.
It only takes a touch.
I’m in the top field listening for...
opens it is a door.
If a door doesn't open
it is a wall.
I do not open.
She doesn't open.
We are walls
who climb over one another.
I am open.
She is open.
We go through
one another like a scream.
Ajar we are almost open
almost closed to one another.
O, for a window.
If a wall opens it is a door.
If a door doesn't open it is a wall.
I do not open. She does not open.
We climb over one another.
I am open. She is open.
We go through one another.
Ajar we are almost open
almost closed to one another.
O, for a window!
the scratchy side of stars
detached doll arms
grandpa's bait box
tales of the other Jesus
the noises we use to fuck strangers
i did not find willows in the sheets
i did not smell cotton in the fountains
i did not see the wild flowers crawl atop the rocks
it felt like home
i was the thing
the tick stuck in sap
drunk and naked on the
living room floor said fuck me
in her deepest voice and i was
smiling as i fell between
her legs and we were laughing
as we rolled beneath the
table and then four months
later she was dead
stood in the doorway that
sunday morning and
there you were with the news
opened your mouth and the
blood just came pouring out
I was at her place the day
she was making bread from scratch
her hair tied back,
the flour on her hands,
the smudge of it on her forehead
where she had pushed her hair back,
her hands in the dough,
me handing her the sack of salt
she had asked for from the cupboard,
the scents all blended
in that kitchen
- I slept in fits & starts
for a long time after that
I could only watch the moon
from my window at night
and listen to the wind at the same time
where it was all going
the summer I turned thirteen
The king of cutlery, for lovers
is the spoon
it can't cut properly
or pick up
but you can clean one
under a tap
with one hand,
while you microwave something
with the other
they work best
with mushy things
same as my teeth
mine are all plastic,
my head is without reason
and I wanna know why
open shutter sun
detour in my zipper teeth
I saw the last light of the night go out.
I screamed at you because you weren't there.
a smoker's outpost,
steam lines on the chatbox windows,
and I want the mist on the inside of you.
I noticed that nobody is saying anything
they have barely even said hello.
have you ever watched yourself eat your own ego?
God is sweeping the basement floor and I'm trying to find a dustpan.
send me sweet laugh lines we can call corny.
you look like the life I killed.
my jello thoughts are half price shots
and over 21 looks at the bar
tell the clouds
to put me back down.
Grizzly March Wind
Candy and her friends want to get naked
by the lake. Their parents have no
jobs. Declining habitat
with fewer food sources. Folks in town
are down and out. More prone to attack.
Ginny left the industrial complex of
comfort and went into the wilderness
of intuition. She wondered
where mother universe came from.
It’s fun to play ladies and gentlemen
on a blanket in the woods. Ginny was like
a summer wind. She would blow you
away. Here is the photograph of her boyfriend
in torn clothing. He logged 70-miles a week.
But suffered 2 risk factors. The first was
shivering. Gary and Ginny
felt a quick shiver
right before the attack.
One useful strategy is to run
for about an hour in the evening
with a brisk wind behind you. That will help
disperse your scent. Candy’s parents
ordered a new patio door. It took several weeks
to gather all the evidence. Gary struggled
for 5 minuets. Ladies and gentlemen
walked naked through the darkness...
Shrinking back into the hole
It stinks of shame. The projectiles
come thick and fast. Words: sharp
-ended consonants; the type that bare teeth
& raise hackles.
I watch my hand wrapped around the glass;
it gets emptier & emptier.
Grimy nails and gnawed finger-ends;
tobacco stains etched into cuticles.
The checkered curtains shut tight:
nothing coming in, nothing escaping.
The gas fire growls softly in the cold
empty alcove. I think of you; neck the warm
Drambuie, slump down into my chest;
watching the light from the fire move
in then back out again.
Murphy’s Oil Soap?
I don’t like Murphy’s Oil Soap. It smells bad. Right?
Just Murphy? Reince! Who cares? Get rid of it!
It’s hard enough to pay attention to this rubbish
you keep piling on my desk, without that odor too.
Get one without perfume. Saltwater soap—good stuff, I know.
But no perfume, okay?
This whole place stinks!
The bathroom towels stink. My bedsheets stink.
I want the word out: everything scent-free.
That poor Obama—look, he was outnumbered, three to one.
But that has changed now.
It’s just me. One male. Not a metrosexual.
So all the fragrances have got to go. Don’t even use them up.
If something’s rotten in the State of Denmark, I say let it stink.
Islamic Terrorism. Right?
We’ve got to face things as they really are.
I don’t like Murphy soap, and so that’s that.
Your own cologne is on thin ice as well.
I have to tell you. Jury’s out on it. We’ll have to see.
Our deepest brain. You’ve read that, right? Like insects.
We say, “Oh, I trust...
I Need to be Psychotic
This windmill outlived its beloved families.
Each new morning turn. We learn vulnerability
how each song is a stone, how roots from
trees on opposite banks intertwine
under the stream bed. Like lovers’ limbs.
I shake to think what took my hand
led me to the vast grayness,
this colorless wanting
of time to speed up or slow, or anything
tasting of sustenance– calcium, flesh
or hope in the shape and size of a meadowlark’s egg–
of what has drained from the fields
and the music which used to paint
the nights warm.
I once sat
in the boat,
on the side—green
and purple grapes
and olive oil,
strips of yellow
and red pepper,
between the pages
the round eyes
in a water pot
is how she
used to make it.
sex in France is great
i don't have to worry about the sheets
reset my gaydar
make the coffee
think about my skin under UV
light my cigarettes after cocaine
no matter how bad i get
the cheese is worse
though, really i do shower
every half-day in a granite pink
wetroom cut from some Italian village
honestly, there's more wine than god here
i don't have to go all the way to the 17th century
and bring up another château margaux
to the stereo glass fronted room
overlooking la petite ville
verres à vin
in her platinum fingers
on Debbie Harry's lips
in the red sun
tick down to dusk
my dark mouth
Nothin' But the Blues
You looked at me this morning
like I was about to pay some dues
you didn’t give me no fair warning
you gave me nothin’ but the blues
I slipped on my traveling shoes
It really wasn’t no great surprise
Not the first time I knew I’d lose
like when a very old man dies
you gave me nothin but the blues
for 12 long years I carried a torch
when I asked you could you feel my flame
you turned back around on the porch,
and said it’s nothin’ new, it's all the same
You gave me nothin… nothin’ but the blues
I rode trains all the way clear out of sight
No destination, jus’ all the way gone
Clear on rollin’ straight through the night
Your face came back to me like a song
You gave me nothin’,
You gave me nothin’…
but the blues
This is a conceptual piece of audio-visual Art of my own making.
Be aware this piece of Art is 6 minutes long and is in 3 Movements.
The 3 Movements are
- Notes from 17
The beautiful cello music was composed and played by Yukiko Louvière at VM Studios, La Rochelle, France between 2016 and 2017.
The sound engineering and production was created and designed by Vanessa Montague.
I hope you enjoy!
Please watch in full screen, high-definition where possible.
Mostly inside your body, and sometime after the first ejaculation,
there will be many small disasters and a small amount of air
and a world you must share
You will eat crab legs and drink pinot grigio with a female
and it will disappear down your throat and you will like it
and precious minutes will be spent making what you think
is love but will only be the grunting and pushing of the animal
inside you, and, really
most minutes will be spent inside things: a building, bed
room, emotions, drunken stupors, that same female,
the two of you like swans in a fountain
or sometimes like two raccoons, full of night time
shenanigans, feeding on the curbside garbage
because there is no food in an encroaching world.
Nebraska in the Dark
The piano builds to a climax. Then stops.
Johnny stands in front of the mirror. Fool around.
Get an idea.
Work on it.
Johnny's dad fakes a job. Mom dreams
of escape. Sis plays trumpet in black
Johnny loves the smell of fresh cut
clarinet. Tina hiked from Tulsa. Too many cows in the yard.
on the hotel bed. Johnny dreams
and escargot. It's a process.
Never tango and tell.
Tina stands in front of the mirror. Get an idea.
Work on it.
Johnny spins the blade
like Fred Astaire.
9 octave slashes....
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